


Kissing in the Name of...

by juliairian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "relatively angst-free", 5+2 - Freeform, Date Night, Experiments, Fluff and Humor, Fluff fest, Idiots in Love, John Watson Experiments on Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John Watson is bi, John is a Great Kisser, M/M, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Relationships, Sherlock is soft, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Smut, Snogging, Stakeout Shenanigans, Surprise Kissing, Unexpected Results, and jealous af, idiots to lovers, so is Sherlock incidentally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 14:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15632481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliairian/pseuds/juliairian
Summary: Did you know that kissing transmits healthy bacteria? Well now Sherlock knows, too, and is off on a new experiment.





	1. ...Science

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short bit of fluff I posted on Tumblr. More chapters to come. I know this isn't exactly original at all, but I wanted to write my own "kissing + experiment = adorable" fanfic - enjoy!

_**Chapter 01 - "...Science"** _

* * *

 

“John, I need your assistance.”

John was sitting in his armchair, reading a book and enjoying a cup of tea after work. Sherlock had been utterly absorbed by his laptop, and hadn’t even said anything when John had come in. Now, he suddenly was standing in front of him with purpose in his eyes. John put his book down and frowned. “With what?”

“An experiment.”

There was a certain glint in his eyes that made something somersault within John’s stomach. He wasn’t sure whether it was anticipation or fear. He got up and regarded Sherlock. “Okay…? What’s the hypothesis?”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “Scientists have discovered that exchanging bacteria with other people is actually beneficial to the human immune system. By exposing yourself to as many bacteria as possible, as well as the same other bacteria over a longer period of time, you’re effectively strengthening your own body.”

John’s eyes widened. “If this is about the mould colonies in the bathrooms—!” He thought Sherlock had gotten rid of those the week before. He’d promised.

“It is not.”

John decided that it could only be worse, then. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Well, then?”

Sherlock acknowledged his change in posture with a raised eyebrow. “I am conducting an experiment on my immune system. I already measured the number of bacteria in my buccal cavity. Next, I am going to kiss you to exchange saliva and – hopefully – useful bacteria. Then I am measuring the number of bacteria again. The next stage of the experiment will entail—“

“Wait, what?” John’s eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets. “You’ll—you want to _kiss me_?” His heart, he had to admit, had sped up a little at the immediate thought. However, the second thought was a decidedly insulting one. “For an _experiment_?!”

“Really, John, the constant necessity for you to repeat everything I said—“

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock sighed. “John, it’s simply an exchange of bacteria, it’s no big deal.”

John couldn’t help himself. “That’s got to be the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

“John. Do be serious about this, please, or I’ll have to find someone else.” Sherlock shuddered.

John gaped at him. So it was… more _desirable_ to do this sort of experiment with _him_ than someone else, then? What the…? Well. Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. John breathed in deeply. Then, before he could think too much about it, he stepped forward, right into Sherlock’s personal space. Their chests were almost touching.

“Okay then…”

Sherlock looked absolutely composed, John noted with annoyance. He probably didn’t feel a thing about this bizarre request. Well, perhaps John was a bit of an idiot, but _kissing_ , he knew. So he was going to show Sherlock the best damn exchange of saliva he could muster.

“Remember, there probably should be some tongue involved to make this work,” Sherlock muttered, still aloof.

“Yeah, got that, thanks very much,” John murmured back, frowning in determination, eyes zoning in on Sherlock’s lips. He licked his own and Sherlock’s eyes flickered downwards momentarily. _Oh, what the hell_ , John thought. He leaned up, placed one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and used the other to guide his head closer. Sherlock, for a second, looked surprised at the hand on his face and his lips parted uncertainly. Luckily, that was all the invitation John needed.

Gently, he pressed their lips together, and took a moment to just feel this new sensation. Sherlock’s lips were full and gorgeous, and he’d had errant thoughts about them over the years. He’d always fancied that perhaps one day Sherlock would realise how very crazy John was about him in every way, or that John would simply kiss him one day to let him know, but it had never happened. And now it happened like this. Well, John was never one to waste an opportunity that may never come again.

He leaned further into the kiss, tilting his head and gently nudging Sherlock’s head the other way to deepen their touch. He felt Sherlock stall, stiffen and clumsily adjust himself. It seemed as if he’d never done this before. A thrill of discovery ran through John as he realised it. Out of his partially closed eyes, he noticed Sherlock’s hands flailing a little; clearly he didn’t know what to do with them. Somehow that spurned him on – perhaps he was having an effect after all.

He gently nudged his tongue along Sherlock’s lips and as the other mouth opened further, John gently began teasing his tongue around Sherlock’s, and it was… oh. Oh.

It was absolute bliss. He stifled the moan that threatened to escape him, but he figured Sherlock probably felt the tremble that went through his entire body. Oh, let him think what he wants, thought John because this was simply _divine_ and his mind began to blissfully shut down. He hadn’t kissed anyone like this in ages; with deep affection instead of fleeting lust, with genuine feeling and intent rather than just lucking it with a girl he picked up. This was different and absolutely perfect.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock actually began kissing him back. His tongue moved tentatively, sweeping John’s mouth; his hands came to rest on John’s upper arms. He’d closed his eyes, and John could swear he felt Sherlock’s body emit the faintest of growls. It shot through him like a rod of lightning and he pulled back.

He tried to compose himself before Sherlock deduced how close he’d been to a raging hard-on. He calmed his breathing, let go of Sherlock’s neck and opened his eyes.

Sherlock was staring at him. And then he was blinking. His lips were still parted, glistening from the kiss and his look was positively stunned. John felt a surge of pride swell in his chest. And perhaps a little flicker of hope.

Unfortunately, Sherlock caught himself. He muttered, “thank you,” turned on the spot, and went back to his desk, where he immediately swabbed the insides of his mouth with a long cotton bud. He slid the resulting sample into a clear plastic bag, picked up the other bag labelled “before exchange” and got up.

“I’m off to the lab, then.” He grabbed his coat and practically ran down the stairs.

In the sitting room, John was still standing rooted to the spot, processing what had just happened. “Jesus,” he muttered.


	2. ...Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now to get some germs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God I was completely overwhelmed yesterday. I've *never* gotten so many replies and kudos at once. Thank you all, that really made me grin all day. And finish the second chapter quicker than I thought. :-D

**_Chapter 02 – “…Jealousy”_ **

* * *

 

The next day, John was still decidedly put out over the whole bloody experiment. Partly because he felt a bit _used_ ; not that Sherlock didn’t often “use” him for his experiments or on cases in one way or another, but he usually felt _helpful_ when that happened. Valued. Yesterday had been… a little too personal, all of a sudden. He was mostly upset, however, by how much it had turned him on. The suddenness of it. The fact that Sherlock had almost certainly gotten something more out of it than bacteria. The fact that Sherlock was unlikely to ever act on that _something_ properly.

John even felt a strange thrill at the thought of how odd and single-minded Sherlock went about this. He was overwhelming as a person to begin with, and now he had overwhelmed the last private part of John as well, and intruded very firmly into some rather exhausting dreams.

It was maddening.

John had the day off, so he went shopping and busied himself in the flat, trying his best to ignore the fact that Sherlock had not come out of his bedroom all day. Finally, in the early evening, as John had settled on the couch to watch some telly, Sherlock emerged, striding into the sitting room with purpose. He was dressed to kill, John noted, in his dark suit and the… _oh God_ , the purple shirt. John closed his eyes a moment to compose himself. When he finally opened them again, Sherlock was still standing right in front of him, staring at him expectantly.

“Yes…?” John said, warily.

“John. Remember how I said yesterday that there was a second part to the experiment?”

John glanced up at Sherlock. _Not really,_ he thought. _Everything became a bit of a blur._ “No.”

Sherlock sighed and plonked down on the sofa table, his knees knocking into John’s. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Right. Well. The first hypothesis was correct, not surprisingly. The bacteria count in my oral mucosa more than doubled after the experiment.”

There was the slightest of hesitations on the word _experiment_ , John noted, as well as the subtle glance at his lips. The corner of his mouth perked up slightly.

“Congratulations, Sherlock. And?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock gave him one of those looks, as if John was a dribbling three-year-old. “And you’re a _doctor_ , John! Sometimes I wonder…” he thankfully didn’t finish that sentence and rolled his eyes dramatically. “The initial hypothesis stated that the increase in bacteria would strengthen the immune system. I clearly have to put that to the test next.”

“Clearly,” John said, deadpan. “So what are you going to do, inhale the contents of the lovely thermos I bought to take coffee to work in?”

The quip went straight over Sherlock’s head. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. In order to catch a viral disease in London, one only needs to be in contact with people enough. I have a complete route planned out for us.”

“Wait a minute, _us_?!” John sat up straighter, and Sherlock actually shrank away a bit as John levelled his glare at him. “I don’t want to catch a cold!”

“But John, don’t you see? You’re the control group!” Sherlock’s voice was pleading now. John got up to pace the room and Sherlock followed, watching him. “You’re a healthy man, reasonably fit,” he began.

“ _Reasonably fit_?” John cried out.

“—and you work with sick people all the time! You’re the perfect element to test myself against.”

“Sherlock, why do so many of your experiments involve not only _causing you_ bodily harm, but threatening _to cause me_ bodily harm as well?”

“Science, John—“

“Don’t you ‘ _Science’_ me, Sherlock Holmes,” John growled and stood right in front of his flatmate, finger poking him none too gently in the chest. Sherlock flinched a little and blinked.

And suddenly, John’s gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips, he couldn’t help himself. He saw Sherlock swallow and he wondered, idly, what might be going through his head right now. His tongue darted out to wet his lip, and when he saw Sherlock’s pupils widen ever so slightly, he had his answer. Huh, now that was perhaps something to entice him to continue this mad experiment and see how far it went.

He breathed out slowly through his nose and then glared at Sherlock again, but some of the heat of it was gone. “All right, then, what did you have in mind?”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened immediately and he grabbed John by the shoulders. “Excellent,” he said, looking gleeful, and John couldn’t help but smile wrily.

“We’ll take the bus for a round trip. It’s just about rush hour so plenty of commuters. We’ll touch everything,” he added, sounding way too enthusiastic about the prospect of gathering all sorts of bacteria and viruses with his body.

“After that, we’ll go to a bar or a pub, something crowded. It’s Friday so that shouldn’t be a problem either. Agreed?”

John shook his head, and huffed a sigh. “Sure. God, I hope I’m not going to regret this.”

“You won’t.”

“I probably will,” John muttered, turning to get his shoes. Then he paused. “On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“If we both catch the lurgy, you’ll be the one to go to the pharmacy to pick up supplies,” John managed a stern enough voice, and Sherlock, reluctantly agreed.

When they were both dressed and Sherlock wrapped in his dramatic coat, they headed downstairs. Just before Sherlock opened the door, however, John stopped him. He’d had a sudden thought that he should be getting something out of this, as well. If Sherlock was using him for an experiment, then who was to say John couldn’t do an experiment of his own? He grabbed hold of a fistful of coat and pulled Sherlock back, trapping him against the wall almost by accident. Almost.

“One thing, Sherlock.”

“Hm?” Sherlock regarded him, looking confused and a little weary. Good.

“Shouldn’t you up your bacteria count as much as possible before we continue?” John had dropped his voice a little, and he was pleased to hear it come out gravelly and full of depth.

“Oh,” Sherlock made, his eyebrows climbing under his curly fringe, lips slightly parted. _Result!_ John thought. “I suppose you’re right, John.” His voice sounded oh-so-unaffected, blasé even. But a certain pinkish tint to his cheeks suggested otherwise.

“For science,” John said seriously as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock Holmes once more.

Several long moments later, he was pleased to note that with every sweep of his tongue, Sherlock seemed to melt a tiny bit into the wall. Just before he was ready to grab the lapels of his coat and lose his cool completely, John pulled back, satisfied that he’d made his point. He thrummed with pleasure as they took off into the city and he couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face at Sherlock’s covert, slightly bewildered glances.

\--------------------------

About an hour later, John was standing in a crowded bus, hanging onto a rail that at least three people had sneezed on. He was no longer smiling. In fact, he was close to a fucking mutiny. Sherlock was bouncing around the bus, getting uncomfortably into people’s personal space. Every time he did, John groaned and closed his eyes, unwilling to witness the complete loss of human dignity in front of him.

They’d already had to change buses twice because the bus driver had told them in no uncertain terms how she felt about _perverts_ on her transport. Before Sherlock could explain the whole bloody experiment to the woman, John had apologized profusely and dragged Sherlock out. But it was still going on. It was a sheer miracle that Sherlock was holding himself back so far as to not lick the handrails.

Finally, they left the bus, only to be greeted by a steady drizzle and a cold evening wind. John pulled up the zipper to his jacket, looking miserably at his friend. “Now what.”

Sherlock flung his coat wide open and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, letting the cool air attack his body as well. John grated his teeth, both at Sherlock’s utter commitment but also at the display of a pale clavicle and the smooth suprasternal notch. He wondered what they would feel like under his tongue.

“Now we go clubbing,” Sherlock exclaimed with delight, and took off down the street.

John sighed in exasperation and followed him. After passing a few pubs and bars, Sherlock finally found an establishment that looked full and _infectious_ enough for his taste. They went in, and John insisted they at least get a table and some beers as to be more inconspicuous. There was loud dance music playing, and the small pub tables were crowded with groups young and old getting hammered after work. The atmosphere was warm and humid with everybody drying off from the rain, and he took off his warm jumper and draped it over his chair. As Sherlock sipped his beer and gave the assembled patrons a predatory glance, John wondered what Sherlock was looking for. He put himself in his position and _looked_.

By a table to their left, he spotted the first woman blowing her nose. It was slightly reddened and her eyes were watering a little. Either getting over a cold or just developing it. (The alcohol in her cocktail certainly wouldn’t help.) Another man surreptitiously took something that hopefully were painkillers, sipping on a glass of water. He was moving and laughing affectedly in a way, clearly trying to impress his date. He was probably a bit sick but hadn’t wanted to cancel. He saw someone else cough. Well, it looked like Sherlock had picked the right establishment. When his eyes returned to their table, he noticed Sherlock was smiling at him. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he looked pleased as Punch.

“You’re deducing,” he drawled.

John laughed. “I guess I am.”

“Have you spotted them all? No, of course you haven’t, you only gave the place a cursory look. But well done, nonetheless.”

John smirked into his beer and preened a little. There was just something about Sherlock’s compliments, regardless whether they were laced with insults.

“So how are you planning on catching their germs,” John asked, running a finger down the damp glass. Sherlock’s eyes flickered downward to follow the trail he left in the condensation, then quickly up again. “Are you just going to go over there and steal the straws out of their cocktails?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the crowd again. “No,” he mused. “I think I’m going to have to be more subtle to be effective.”

“Subtle,” John laughed. “Not really your area.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and his lips twitched.

“Perhaps not.” Suddenly, he drained his glass. “Come along then, we’ve got work to do.”

“What?” John frowned as Sherlock got up.

“We’re going to have to get into some people’s personal space, John,” Sherlock explained slowly, again using his ‘I’m talking to an imbecile’ voice.

“I can’t imagine they’ll like that very much, judging from the reactions on the bus.”

“Oh, nothing like that, John. We’re at a bar. We’re going to chat them up.” His eyes narrowed and there was a strange glint in them again. “Isn’t that _your area_?”

“Wha—wait, we’re—“ John stared. “You want to go chat someone up. With me.”

“Don’t be obtuse, we’re going separately, of course.”

“Right. No. What? You’re going to go and…” John swallowed. “ _Flirt_ with people to catch their germs.”

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. “Yes. Drink up. We both need to have a somewhat similar exposure for this to work.”

John slowly shook his head, his jaw slack. Just when he thought he’d gotten the hang of this experiment, Sherlock threw him another curveball. “Uh—I’ll just finish my drink, you, er… go ahead,” John managed. Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the bar, deftly buttoning his tight-fitting suit-jacket as he went.

John wasn’t sure what he expected to happen next. Sherlock was gorgeous, intense and, as far as John was concerned, he was out of everybody’s league. But he was also insulting, rude and completely socially inept, so he kind of expected him to come away from this with as many angry slaps as with phone numbers.

He watched in horror, his beer forgotten, as Sherlock casually chatted up a woman sitting at the bar. Moments ago, she’d slipped a packet of tissues back into her bag. Sherlock began talking to her as he waited for his drink to be served. He laughed and leaned sideways to reveal more parts of his clavicle again, and John wondered if he knew what kind of effect that had on people. His face looked relaxed, jovial and engaging, and John knew it was completely fake. That didn’t make it any easier, though, watching the woman surreptitiously leaning into his space, batting her eyelashes at him.

Suddenly, she sneezed. John’s eyes widened as he realised that Sherlock hadn’t even flinched back and taken the full brunt of it. She apologized profusely, fumbling for another tissue, as he slowly wiped at his face; when she moved to the side, John saw that Sherlock wore a deeply satisfied expression. It was such a silly reaction that John had to laugh. The woman apologized again, looking mortified, and Sherlock extricated himself with his drink, leaving her behind. He gave John an encouraging look and jerked his head sideways as if to say, ‘you’re coming?’ and John suddenly felt challenged. He laughed again, drained the last of his pint, and got up.

\--------------------------

As the evening wore on, John was getting tired of the game. He’d chatted up a few women and even gotten one phone number from a not-too-bad-looking blonde. But he felt his heart wasn’t really in it. He was standing to the side of the bar, slowly losing the interest of the 30-something brunette he was supposedly chatting to. He couldn’t help it. His eyes kept straying to the back of the pub, where Sherlock was sitting at a table, making googly eyes at a bloke built like a tank. Short hair, tight t-shirt straining over abs and biceps, probably former or current military, John thought. Quite attractive, but a slightly less than intelligent look on his face that was a bit off-putting.

The woman next to him finally got his attention again. “Look uh, no offense, but I’m not really interested in being your beard, love,” she said carefully, with a rueful smile, pushing her empty glass away. Before John could correct her, she’d gotten up to go. “Maybe you should talk to him,” she suggested. “Enjoy your night.”

John gaped at her as she sauntered away. Yeah, perhaps ogling his very attractive friend whilst chatting up women was a bit not good. _Maybe you should talk to him._ John huffed a laugh. She had a point. Not that Sherlock would listen. He caught another glimpse of Sherlock leaning into army guy’s space, brushing his hand idly by the other man’s. Something in John’s vision went red. _Being your beard_ , huh? Well, perhaps John had to up the ante a little. Do something unexpected to get Sherlock’s attention again.

He raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. Right. Not exactly something he was practised in, but nevertheless… John reached up to his collar and undid the first two buttons, loosening his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair and strengthened his posture a little. And then he looked around for someone to catch his eye.

There. A rather good-looking young man with glasses was standing alone by the old fireplace at the centre of the back wall. He was eyeing the crowd casually, sipping a cocktail. John wasn’t entirely sure whether he was interested in men or women or both, it was hard to tell from one look (well, Sherlock would know, wouldn’t he, the bastard), but it was worth a try. Also, it happened to be somewhat in Sherlock’s line of sight. John squared his shoulders, grabbed his whiskey and marched over there, ready to dazzle.

“Hi,” he said with a – he hoped – enticing smile.

The man looked at him. He was slim and tall and had a soft, relaxed look. His dark-rimmed glasses looked actually quite good on him. His light-brown hair was short and swept back from his face. A short beard adorned his chin. John found himself a bit thrilled. He’d never deliberately chatted up a guy before, and he wondered why.

“Hey,” the man said, looking him up and down, his lips quirking in a smile at John’s direct approach.

“I’m John.”

“Adam.”

They shook hands. Adam took a sip of his colourful drink. “Which one is that?” he nodded at John’s glass.

“Connemara. 12 years.”

“Ooh,” the man nodded in appreciation, sucking in the breath through his teeth.

John laughed. “Yeah, it’s quite peaty.” He cocked an eyebrow at the decidedly fruity looking beverage Adam was nursing. “You?”

“Uh… something that was on the happy hour list?” His face wrinkled into an embarrassed smile, and John found that he actually quite liked how that looked. This wasn’t so hard, after all.

“Looks sweet,” John said, without taking his eyes of Adam’s. He was pleased to note the reaction that elicited. Christ, he’d had no idea, but it turned out, he enjoyed this. Being inclined both ways was not really something John had actively pursued; the situation just hadn’t really come up. Now he wondered if he’d been missing out all these years. Adam certainly was not uninterested.

They chatted about drinks for a bit, and John forced himself not to look in Sherlock’s direction. Only once did he catch his eye past the mantelpiece, and it sent a jolt down his spine. Sherlock’s eyes were glowering at him. John grinned at something Adam had said and felt deeply satisfied at having apparently gotten some kind of revenge.

As it turned out, this was actually what did it for Sherlock. Only a few minutes later, he came over to join them and bluntly insinuated himself between John and Adam. “Excuse me,” he said, deadpan, eyeing Adam from toes to hairline and evidently deducing his entire existence. John stared at him, mouth open in fond surprise. “I think it’s time we left.” He turned his hawkish stare at John, which made his blood grow warmer in his veins. He thrust John’s forgotten jumper and his jacket at him.

“You think so, do you? Sorry - my flatmate,” he said with an over-exaggerated shrug and an apologetic smile to Adam. Adam relaxed and laughed a little.

“Yes, I do. I’ve gotten everything I need. Let’s go home, I need to finish the experiment.” He stared at John, refusing to budge. Adam was giving him an incredulous look. But something in his words made John perk up. _Finish the experiment_ , huh?

“Oh, I see,” he said slowly. “Okay, sure. Sorry, but I gotta go. It was really nice to meet you, Adam. See you around?” He winced slightly at his overly fake tone. Adam, sadly, picked up on it. “Yeah, all right,” he said, sounding defeated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and quickly strode away. John followed, pulling his jumper and jacket back on, ready for the rainy cold outside. To his surprise, Sherlock was hailing a cab.

“No more busses, then?”

“Too long a wait,” Sherlock said, his voice clipped.

John rocked on his heels as he stood by the curb, waiting as the cab approached. “That was a bit rude,” he muttered, but he was smiling a little.

“He wasn’t even _sick_ , John,” was all Sherlock had to say to that, sounding highly annoyed. John thought it suited him well.

As they settled into the cab, John grinned. “Gotten plenty of people to sneeze on you, then?”

Sherlock looked over, and his annoyance faded a little. A satisfied smile spread on his face and it made John’s heart twist in fondness for his mad friend. “Oh yes. I’m crawling with germs,” Sherlock exclaimed loudly, beaming. John saw the cab driver glance briefly over his shoulder with a disgusted and utterly bewildered look and he laughed.

\--------------------------

On the brief journey, John decided that enough was enough, especially after the night they’d had. He’d seen what he could do to Sherlock if he put his mind to it and he knew exactly what Sherlock did to him. And he felt a bone-deep ache inside, a desperate need to kiss him again. Nothing compared to it, really. So he made up his mind, perhaps emboldened by being slightly tipsy.

As they entered the hallway in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock hung up his coat and John joined him to hang his jacket next to it. Sherlock took three steps towards the staircase when John caught his sleeve. “Sherlock.”

He turned around, giving him a questioning look. John stepped closer. Without any ado, he grabbed Sherlock’s lapels, leaned up on tip-toes and kissed him.

Sherlock didn’t flinch away, and after a moment of surprise, he began kissing him back. John swept his tongue through his warm mouth, revelling in the softness of the lips, the firm body under his palms, the smell of Sherlock so close. It almost made him forget why they had started doing this in the first place, and he certainly didn’t want to stop.

However, just as John began to slowly deepen the kiss, Sherlock abruptly pulled back. John faintly noted that Sherlock’s elevated breathing mirrored his own. But he stepped away quickly, straightening his jacket, and clearing his throat.

“Excellent idea, John.” His voice was tightly controlled. “Now we both have the same set of germs, which maximises our efforts tonight.” He hesitated for a moment, and something flickered over his expression. “I’ll be in the kitchen, taking samples.”

With quick strides, he bounded up the stairs, almost running away. John blinked rapidly, his heart hammering in his chest.

_Oh that bastard._

_I’m going to bloody murder him and there’ll be nobody to solve that case_ , John thought darkly, before he slunk after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about Whiskey. ;-)


	3. ...Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's efforts are rewarded with one hell of a cold. Thank goodness he's got his very own doctor in the house...

**_Chapter 03 – “…Care”_ **

* * *

 

Sherlock strutted around the next morning, gloating and rambling. He’d been awake all night, cataloguing his own saliva or something like that. John was only half listening, standing in the kitchen making tea. He was still annoyed at Sherlock’s frankly insane behaviour the night before; he was tired and perhaps slightly hungover.

However, Sherlock, despite all his knowledge, wasn’t a trained doctor. In his arrogance, he failed to take the incubation period of the virus into account. So John was currently simply waiting, biding his time.

“Remarkable, John,” he intoned, whilst pacing across the sitting room with his long strides. “I guessed that the results would be positive, but still, the experience of a successfully proven hypothesis is still worth the effort. There are of course further variables to consider.” He stopped and enumerated them for John, who had now settled carefully in his chair with toast, tea and a newspaper and who wasn’t remotely interested.

 “In a few hours I should be able to tell which virus I came into contact with—“

“More like three,” John muttered, but Sherlock didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“—also I’ll need another sample of your saliva, to cross-reference the different bacteria cultures—“

“Sherlock, I’m eating.”

“—and then there’s the question of long-term exposure—“

John sighed and resigned himself to a few hours of manic detective, zoning out the rambling. Sherlock eventually threw himself before his laptop, filling in spreadsheets and notes. John tried to concentrate on his paper, but still found himself unable to completely shut him out. Specifically, he found it difficult to banish the vision of Sherlock as he’d been pressed up against him twice in as many days. The soft, yielding lips, the warm chest against his, the nose pressing into his cheek, the fluttering eyelashes—

John swallowed and put the newspaper down. Sherlock was engrossed in his work, so John watched him a little, trying to sort out his feelings on the stupid experiment. What would Sherlock do if John simply strode over there and began snogging him again? He had an inkling that Sherlock wasn’t entirely unaffected by the experience; so how long, John wondered, would he have to kiss him before Sherlock gave in and reciprocated? The thought awakened something predatory in him, something that he realised had been smouldering in his chest like embers since their first kiss.

John shook his head. These thoughts strayed into slightly not good territory. He put his breakfast things away and grabbed his laptop to work on the post about their last case, paying careful attention not to sound too gushing about Sherlock, wary of what he might think or say.

It was the afternoon when he heard the first sneeze.

It came from the direction of the bathroom, and John stilled in his typing. There was another sneeze, more violent than the first. John stopped typing and mentally prepared himself.

He pressed his lips together tightly to stop himself from laughing.

He heard the door slam and hurried steps down the hall and then Sherlock whirled into the sitting room, his dressing gown flaring behind him. He didn’t even look at John at first. He simply noted something in his spreadsheets before he sneezed into his laptop.

John couldn’t help it. He let out a small snort of laughter. Sherlock’s head poked up from behind the laptop, murder in his eyes. John felt instantly and entirely vindicated.

He gave Sherlock the sunniest of grins. “Bless y—“

“I DO NOT have a cold!” Sherlock jumped up, snatched his laptop and stormed into his bedroom.

John simply laughed. And then he grabbed his jacket and wallet and went to the pharmacy.

\--------------------------

By the time evening rolled around, Sherlock was feeling miserable. He’d crawled out of his bedroom at some point, complaining about being too hot, too cold, hungry and thirsty at the same time; yet he refused to eat or drink anything and simply sulked on the couch. John pressed some painkillers on him, which Sherlock only reluctantly agreed to take before he went back to sulking.

He was inordinately mad at John, because John was feeling _fine_.

“You cheated,” he accused, his voice muffled by the sofa cushions.

John looked up from his laptop, his two fingers poised in the air as he stopped typing. “Sherlock, how could I possibly have cheated at _this_?”

“You didn’t touch all the same surfaces I did yesterday. You didn’t approach as many people in the bar!”

John thought it might be best not to mention that he had, as far as Sherlock was concerned, kissed him again at the end of the night to ‘make sure they got the same bacteria’. Although perhaps not even Sherlock could really believe that. “Well, somebody interrupted the very nice chat I had with—“ John muttered under his breath, but Sherlock heard him anyway and interrupted.

“He didn’t even have the _sniffles_ , John! You only talked to him because—“

There was a pause. John let his hands rest in his lap, intrigued by this line of conversation.

“Because…?”

“ _Nevermind_ ,” Sherlock told the back of the couch.

John had a little debate with himself whether or not he should say something. But _sod it_ , he’d endured a sick and pouty Sherlock all day, he deserved a little bit of teasing.

He cleared his throat and pretended to sound casual. “I talked to him because he seemed nice and approachable. I was getting bored whilst you were flirting with that army twit.”

It did the trick. Sherlock vaulted himself around so that he was lying half across the armrest. He gave John a look of mocking disdain. “ _Nice and approachable_? How utterly _tedious_. Is that what you go in for these days?”

John looked up and caught his eye. “Not usually, no.” He let his gaze linger for definitely longer than necessary, long enough to see a look of confusion break Sherlock’s cold stare.

Sherlock sniffed, probably trying to sound dignified, but it sounded mostly sick and pitiful. He sat up. “This is outrageously boring. I’m going to bed.”

“Good night,” John said with a smile, knowing he must have hit a nerve. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Sherlock only grumbled something about John’s _useless bacteria_ in return and disappeared into the bathroom.

\--------------------------

The next day, John was still not sick. Sherlock, however, had hit a new low. As far as John could tell, he hadn’t drunk or eaten anything properly throughout the previous day, and instead of resting, he’d mostly paced and sulked and been generally stressing out over the failed experiment.

“At least now you’re forced to stay in bed,” John said as he brought him another thermos with tea into the bedroom.

“I hope it is proper tea this time, John,” Sherlock moaned from beneath a mountain of his soft downy duvet. John placed the tea and some biscuits on the bedside table.

“Nope. Peppermint with honey, lemon and some ginger. Mrs Hudson swears by it.” Sherlock groaned. “If you don’t drink it, I’ll tell her,” John threatened.

Sherlock poked his head up and narrowed a death glare at him. “You wouldn’t.”

John grinned at him. “Yes, I would.” He poured him a cup and held it out; to his relief, the threat worked. It was all he had, really. Sherlock shuffled himself into a half-sitting position and accepted the tea, cradling the mug with his hands.

He was really a mess. His nose was red, his eyes were tearing up from his blocked sinuses and his voice was croaky and congested. It was pitiful and ridiculous and simultaneously, it was one of the most delightfully adorable versions of Sherlock John had ever seen. His chest was constantly beset by warm flushes when he thought things like that, to the point where John was thinking he was getting ill as well. But it was only the sensation of being utterly besotted with this man who was suddenly in his care.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he held the cup to his chin, inhaling the warm steam. It looked like it was providing at least some relief. The soft, exhausted look on his face made him look so young and vulnerable. _Me and my bloody carer syndrome,_ John thought. _Ridiculous. If he wasn’t ill, he’d mock me relentlessly for it._ John smiled and reached out. He smoothed back a few damp curls from Sherlock’s forehead, then tested his temperature with the back of his hand. Sherlock gave a small rumble in his chest at the touch, which made John quickly pull his hand back.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. For a few moments, everything was very silent. Sherlock’s gaze seemed to be taking John apart, bit by bit; he felt as if his very layers were being stripped away, as if Sherlock was looking for something, trying to figure him out. _After my behaviour, it should be obvious,_ John thought. He surely must be exhibiting all the signs of _dangerous sentimentality_.

Yet Sherlock seemed confused still. The spell was broken when he suddenly coughed, his tea spilling a little. John used the distraction to get up again. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. If you need anything—“ he paused. “Text me,” he finished, and gave Sherlock a half-hearted grin.

Sherlock was still quiet, looking at him oddly. John finally tore his eyes away and made to leave, when the deep, gravelly voice stopped him. “Stay.”

John froze. “What?”

Sherlock was looking into his cup. “It would… be nice. Um.” Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly. “If you stayed. A little bit.” He sighed. “Being sick is a bit boring.”

John chuckled softly. “Yes, I imagine it is.” He looked around, but the only chair was covered in a pile of lab equipment that John had banished from the kitchen. Sherlock shuffled over a little, giving a meaningful glance to the other side of the bed. John smiled at his friend, feeling the fondness swell in his chest once again. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed properly this morning, since it was Sunday. It seemed fitting to lounge around in bed whilst providing some company for Sherlock.

 _Lounging around in_ Sherlock’s _bed_ , his subconscious reminded him. _That’s a bit new, isn’t it?_

He climbed on top of the covers next to Sherlock, propped a pillow between his back and the headboard and got comfortable. Sherlock studied him out of the corner of his eye, and he seemed both surprised and relieved that John stayed.

“So, what non-boring things can I, your humble doctor, provide for you today?”

Sherlock put his cup on his nightstand and slid down lower into the covers. “You’re not only a doctor. You’re also a storyteller,” he said with a rather fond expression as his eyes drifted close. “Tell me a story.”

“I thought you hated my stories,” John murmured, drifting a little closer to Sherlock’s prone figure.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock’s hand waved him away weakly. “You’re brilliant.”

John smiled and sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “I wish I had recorded that.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding amused. “Tell me something about before you joined the army.”

John leaned his head back and thought about it for a moment. Then he began to talk. He wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was listening to all of it, as he seemed to be gradually falling asleep again. But it felt good to just talk in the knowledge that it comforted his friend.

After a while, John’s hand drifted over to Sherlock’s head, and he found himself gently caressing his curls. His touch was very light, but John thought that he heard Sherlock sigh contentedly a few times.

By the time John finished telling his third Uni anecdote, Sherlock was fast asleep. John watched him a little and kept stroking his hair as the rest of the world faded into blurry sidelines. All he could see was Sherlock, who had taken one look at John and decided that he wanted him in his home. Who felt comfortable enough with him and his body to kiss him simply for an experiment. Who got jealous of women and men alike who dared take an interest in John. Who had become the most important person in his life.

And John finally came to a startling conclusion, feeling raw with the abruptness of it. He sighed heavily but didn’t hesitate before he leaned over. He gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead before he quickly left the room.


	4. ...a Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things turn a bit sexy during a stakeout...

For the next few days, John decided that for once in his life, he’d make things easy for himself. He called in sick at work, thinking that perhaps it counted if the person who depended on you to eat and sleep properly was sick. Also, things between him and Sherlock were changing somehow, and he wanted some time to sort through that.

Being sick had smoothed some of the edges of their daily lives, and Sherlock could actually be nice since he knew he wanted John to order him food or bring him tea. He was still a bit of a prick about it, ordering John around when he got bored or annoyed, but… there was a new undertone in there. As if he kept being rude to keep himself from being something else. His heart wasn’t entirely in it, it seemed.

On day three, Lestrade brought a case. He was delighted to see Sherlock in such a messed up state and immediately wanted to take videos for blackmailing; John almost let him, but then he told him off after all, letting Sherlock know that _he owed him now._ Sherlock looked a bit worried at that.

The case was interesting. No dead bodies (yet), but a puzzle to solve. Stolen crates and empty warehouses and suspicions of smuggling and more was suddenly all he could talk about. John had a hard time before getting him to rest regularly, but now it was almost impossible. He sent some very rude texts to Lestrade the next night, for making his job that much harder. Lestrade seemed bemused that John felt so responsible about caring for Sherlock; John had to concede to himself that yes, perhaps being… well… _in love with him_ had something to do with it.

It was still a startling realisation and he’d tried not to think about it too much. But it was there now, rooted in his mind, as clear as knowing his own name.

“Sherlock, come on, you can read those shipping manifestos tomorrow.” John stood by his desk, holding out a cup of tea that Sherlock ignored.

“Hmmm, no. By tomorrow they may have stolen another load, John.”

“By tomorrow you could develop bloody pneumonia if you’re not careful. Your body is weakened and you’re exhausted. Go. To. Bed.”

“Tedious.” Sherlock waved him away.

John bristled and gave a humourless laugh. “Oh no.” He plonked down the cup loudly, the tea splashing on the desk. “You don’t get to wave me off like that. You dragged me into this stupid germ experiment and now you have to deal with the consequences. I’m your doctor and I say you need to get some rest. _Now, Sherlock_ ,” he practically growled.

Sherlock looked up and blinked, and John was glad to see that his _Captain voice_ still worked on him, even if he was distracted by a case. Sherlock frowned, his mouth opening and closing a few times, clearly unsure what to reply to that; but then he tried to simply ignore John and went back to his lists.

John wasn’t having it. He lunged forward, grabbed Sherlock under the shoulders and heaved him out of his chair with such speed that the lanky man had no chance to defend himself.

“John!” Sherlock tried to fight him off, but it was a half-hearted effort at best.

“I’ve had it, Sherlock. I really mean it.” John stepped around Sherlock, quickly ducked into his middle, wrapped his arms around him and lifted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

 “JOHN!” Sherlock sounded shocked and horrified, his voice muffled from where he was speaking into his shoulder blades. “Unhand me!”

“In a minute,” John grunted. Sherlock wasn’t heavy, by comparison, but he was _tall_ and John’s shoulder wasn’t happy about this manhandling at all. He quickly strode into the kitchen and on to the corridor. Thankfully, the man in his arms wasn’t struggling, because no way would he have been able to hold on then.

They reached Sherlock’s bedroom and John unceremoniously kicked the door open. He was panting by the time he lowered Sherlock onto the mattress. His muscles would have preferred simply dropping him, but he _was_ ill, he supposed. He gently leaned down, Sherlock’s weight was transferred to the bed and John sighed in relief.

When he looked up, he noticed Sherlock still had his arms around John’s shoulders. He kneeled on the bed, one leg between Sherlock’s, who seemed to become aware of it at the same time as John. He stared at him with wide eyes, utterly stunned speechless. John felt a small smirk twitch on his lips. If he’d known this was so effective, he’d have tried it months ago.

John’s breathing was still elevated. He held Sherlock’s arms, feeling the warm, feverish skin under his palms. Sherlock licked his lips, and John felt a stab of arousal watching the motion. Sherlock’s eyes were shining, his cheeks flushed, his breathing rattling in his chest… and… he was still quite sick. There was nothing John wanted to do more in that moment than lean down and thoroughly ravish him, but after a brief internal struggle, annoyingly, his doctor’s conscience won out.

He sighed, sure that Sherlock must recognize the sound of pure longing. John leaned slowly down. He felt the hands at his nape slip a little, and… oh he fucking _loved_ the feel of these hands right there and _oh God_ , he had to make sure they did this again when Sherlock was of sound mind and body. John faltered a little and he closed his eyes a moment to collect himself. When he opened them again and looked at Sherlock’s, his pupils had definitely dilated and there was no other word for it – Sherlock was undeniably aroused.

John gathered every fibre of his will together. To take the edge off the denial a little, he gentle pressed his nose against Sherlock’s cheek and jaw, and nuzzled his skin gently. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close and his breath hitched. John pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw and pulled back. “Come on,” he said. Sherlock swallowed and without further ado, slipped beneath the covers. John didn’t even ask if he should stay. He lay down next to Sherlock on the duvet, settling in comfortably. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, to drive the point home. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock sighed, looking shaken. He turned to his side, watching John, but his exhaustion was swiftly catching up with him. His eyelids drooped but he wiggled his hand out of the blanket, placing it next to his head; John smiled and took it, running his thumb softly over the bony knuckles. Sherlock’s breathing began evening out.

\----------------------------------

As it turned out, this was the way things worked out the best for the next days. Sherlock was still working on the case, but when he got tired from coughing his lungs out or simply toppling from exhaustion, John was there to gently get him to bed. He stayed every single time, his presence the only thing that seemed to keep Sherlock motivated to stay in bed himself. The arrangement meant that John now had a whole range of images of Sherlock waking up, hair tousled, pliant under the covers, softly seeking out John’s body; images that began making regular appearances in his dreams, tantalizing him.

On the day when Sherlock finally woke up feeling much better, he had his whole body wrapped around John, effectively spooning him. However, John went from feeling warm and lovely in his detective cocoon to incredibly horny in a matter of seconds, so he quickly extricated himself and stumbled to the bathroom without looking back. When he emerged after indulging his needs under the shower to get himself to calm down, Sherlock was up and dressed, looking more like himself than he had in days.

That meant there was nothing holding him back from the case any longer. Lestrade finally called them in when the first body was found. Sherlock bounced around the crime scene, spouting deductions about the stabbed factory worker at mile a minute as usual. John would offer his input and perhaps Sherlock gave him more than the occasional fond look, but otherwise, things were back to normal. Except that John now realised that he absolutely loved seeing Sherlock in his element and he really, really wanted to pick up their experiment where they left off to show him how brilliant he was. There was something of a twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes all day, as if he could read John’s mind.

The same evening, they joined Lestrade and a grumpy Donovan for the stakeout at the warehouse. The Met had made it look as if their investigation was concluded and removed all their tapes and equipment. They knew that their main suspect had his wares – probably drugs – stashed away somewhere, but even Sherlock hadn’t been able to spot them, to his chagrin and Donovan’s amusement. So a trap and a stakeout it was.

John joined them after he’d made the last coffee run of the night, handing out the paper cups to Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan where they were sitting in the darkened police car, hidden between containers. Sherlock on the back seat was furiously typing on his phone, ignoring John and the officers, even though John kept sending him worried looks. He had an inkling that Sherlock was planning something, specifically something dangerous which he thought would conclude the case quicker than sitting around.

Predictably, after he’d finished his coffee, he stashed his phone, put his empty cup in the cup holder and declared cheerily, “I’m going for a walk.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade turned in his seat. “This is a bloody crime scene, a stakeout! No, you are not going for a sodding walk!”

“You’ll spook the suspect and we will have sat here for nothing!” Sally exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned at her in that horribly insulting way he had. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were doing that anyway.” She bristled and turned beet red in seconds, but Sherlock was out of the car before Lestrade had the presence of mind to lock the doors.

“I, uh.” John hesitated.

“Oh, what are you waiting for, go after him! Make sure he doesn’t botch it!” Lestrade looked furious, but he waved John off, resigned.

John quickly left, jogging after Sherlock through the dark container alleys. “Sherlock,” he hissed. “Wait up.”

Sherlock actually waited. “Good. This was getting dull.”

“I swear to God, if you—“

“Oh do keep your idle threats, John. I know exactly when you’re serious and when you’re only saying it because you feel you owe it to Lestrade.”

He strode on, his dramatic coat trailing after him and John let out a laugh and just went along, as usual.

“I have a hunch,” Sherlock merely said as they took a route to the back of the shipping area. They reached a chain-link fence before too long and followed it along, looking for breaks. Before they found one, however, they heard footsteps.

John immediately stiffened and his shoulders straightened. He made to reach for the gun stuck in the waistband of his jeans, but Sherlock stopped him. “Not yet,” he whispered. John nodded, frowning, but followed his lead.

They slowly sneaked around the last of the containers to reach the other side of the large warehouse. There was a dark figure working on the lock on the back fire escape. In the night’s silence, the lock clicked loudly as it opened, and the figure looked around briefly before they vanished into the building.

Sherlock drew John close so he could whisper directly into his ear. “He’ll get his stash and get out the same way he came. He’ll see the police car long before they’ll see him.” Sherlock’s breath was hot on the sensitive shell of John’s ear and he shivered a little. He berated himself for thinking of such things now, in this situation; but then Sherlock did something completely unexpected.

He took his hand. “Come on, I have an idea.”

“Sherlock!” John quickly ran after him as Sherlock dragged him forward to the warehouse. Just next to the door was a large metal chute leading to the roof, creating a small, hidden niche. They crowded against the wall; Sherlock leaned back and beckoned John into his personal space. He quickly wrapped his arms around him and pulled him flush against his body. The heat rose in John’s neck and cheeks and his throat suddenly felt dry. But as he looked around, he noted they were now both covered from sight by someone exiting. Any such observations were clean blown out of his mind however when he began to focus on Sherlock’s lips just inches from his, his angular face cast in dramatic shadows and glowing only fainting from an orange emergency light.

John wasn’t sure how long he stared at Sherlock, breathing shallow, taking in the sensation of covering the tall body with his own, feeling the warm hands on his back. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps returned and he froze.

“John.” Sherlock whispered against his skin. “We need to distract him.”

“Hm?” He noted Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. The suggestive look. Oh. His eyes widened as his meaning dawned on him. “ _Oh_.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up briefly, before he pulled him closer, and John didn’t even think, didn’t even need any more prompting than that to gently raise his lips to Sherlock’s.

 _God_. He’d dreamed about this for days now, feeling starved for his touch. And it was _different_ now. Sherlock was no longer a coughing mess and he had _invited_ this, had gone into it knowing that it wasn’t just a functional exchange of saliva but it was supposed to be a snog. A _distracting snog_. Well, John certainly didn’t need any more motivation than that.

He moulded his lips on Sherlock’s soft mouth, tracing the lines of his cupid’s bow, gradually parting his lips at the same time as Sherlock did. With a soft groan, Sherlock let him in, slowly tangling their tongues, exploring, teasing; the sound nearly buckled John’s knees. He pressed closer, situating his thigh firmly between Sherlock’s legs, startling another moan from his chest. John sighed into the aching sensation and raised his hands to find Sherlock’s head, to run his fingers into the soft hair and pull him closer. One arms around his waist tightened, whilst one hand began fumbling with John’s belt. He nearly froze, but then thought _okay, this was certainly part of the distraction. Wasn’t it?_

The footsteps were at the door now, and adrenaline tinged with fear surged through John. It made him kiss Sherlock even more desperately; all while he began steeling himself for whatever assault the madman had planned. Another sweep of Sherlock’s tongue almost scattered his thoughts and John brushed his leg against a noticeable erection. _Oh_ now he was definitely convinced. There was no chance in hell anyone could fake this kind of response. _God_ , the things he wanted to do to the man. With the snogging, the (possibly armed) suspect only metres away and the anticipation of continuing this at home, John had never felt so alive before.

The door clicked open quietly, and John felt Sherlock draw back a little, getting ready, dropping his hands to his belt, slowly dragging it from its loops. It felt suggestive and dangerous and the thought that Sherlock probably was going to want to use it as a weapon only sent another thrill through him. John let his hands fall from Sherlock’s hair and braced himself against the wall. Sherlock dropped into a crouch, one hand quickly wrapping the belt around a fist, one hand hovering over John’s crotch. John’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest at the sight, his breathing ragged with arousal now. And then Sherlock looked up and _winked at him_.

He took a deep breath and let out the loudest groan John had ever heard anyone make. His eyes wide, he stared at Sherlock; but he didn’t have a chance to stare for long. “Oh _John_ ,” Sherlock whimpered and John’s brain cells suddenly had acute difficulties functioning at all.

And then they heard it. The sound of someone jumping back at the sound, surprised and startled. “Huh? Who—?” A gruff voice came up behind them and swore loudly.

John spun around, looking probably very convincingly shocked. Thankfully, Sherlock was a brilliant actor.

“Oh! Oh my God you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, his voice pitched higher, sounding harmless and more _camp_ than John had ever heard him. He quickly caught on, however, taking a deep breath to ready himself. He drew himself up to his full height (such as it was) and gave the man a threatening once-over. “Yeah mate, do you mind?” His chin gestured at Sherlock.

The man had a bewildered and decidedly disgusted look. He was carrying a wrapped parcel under one arm. “What the hell?” He pulled out a gun and John immediately positioned himself between Sherlock and him, feeling something cold run down his spine.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sherlock held out his arm. “There’s no need for that. We were just looking for a quiet place to have some fun.”

John was silent, watching the man’s every move. “Yeah man, just leave,” he growled, his hand already hovering behind his back.

“No. Hands where I can see them,” the man croaked, looking from left to right. Sweat was running down his face, glistening orange in the glow of the light. “Who else is here? How many?” He was speaking louder now, pointing his gun at John, and he reluctantly held up his hands. He felt completely steady, ready to pounce. He also noticed Sherlock inching out of the niche ever so slowly, belt still wrapped around his fist. John was counting the moments it would take for one of the police lookouts to spot them, to hear them.

“Hey. Hey!” he shouted as loudly as he dared. “We’ve got nothing to do with you, just put the gun down!”

“Quiet!” The man was becoming more and more panicked and John could tell he was considering making a run for it. Sherlock was nearly out of the niche and John subtly repositioned himself to keep him covered.

Suddenly, everything happened quickly. The man turned and John thought he heard hurried footsteps, finally, when the man let his arm drop a bit and made to run. Sherlock immediately dashed forward and stepped in his way, trying to trip him. The gun swung dangerously close to his head as he dodged and John didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the flailing arm, twisted it and wrenched the gun from the clammy hands quicker than the man could blink. The man shouted out in pain. Sherlock immediately wrapped the belt around his upper arms and kicked his legs out from under him. He dropped the parcel and fell to his knees with a pained shout. John held the gun to his temple. “Don’t. Move.”

The whole exchange couldn’t have taken long. He still felt excitement, adrenaline, arousal course through him, and when he met Sherlock’s eyes over the man’s head, he saw the same emotions projected back at him. Sherlock swallowed and looked at John as if he wanted to devour him. John desperately wanted to let him.

Lestrade, Donovan and another officer came jogging onto the scene, staring at them.

“Bloody hell you guys,” Lestrade breathed. “Nice job.”

Sally scoffed and grabbed a plastic bag from her pocket and with it, carefully lifted the package from the ground, ignoring the pained wails of the man on his knees.

“Uh, John, perhaps you should…” Lestrade gestured at him, still holding the gun pressed to the man’s head, breathing heavily. Jesus, he must be quite a sight. He collected himself and lowered the gun. After a second of pause, he reluctantly passed it over to Lestrade, who gave him a bemused look.

“Still a soldier, huh,” he said, looking like he really shouldn’t approve of this but he seemed kind of impressed anyway. John could practically _feel_ Sherlock’s smirk on the back of his neck.

The other officer stepped up to Sherlock as if he was afraid to touch him, probably one sliver of pride away from asking for permission to cuff the man. Thankfully, Sherlock stepped out of the way, holding on to the man until the handcuffs were firmly in place. He slipped the belt off the man’s torso and genially rolled it up in one hand before handing it to John as casually as possible.

John thought Lestrade and Sally’s eyes would bulge out of their sockets as he accepted the belt with a look and slowly threaded it back into his jeans. He felt Sherlock’s eyes follow the motion, and the air suddenly became too thick too breathe.

“Right, uh,” Lestrade cleared his throat. They could hear other cars arriving. “We’ll have to wrap up here for a while, do you wanna wait for a ride or…” he looked doubtful at the two of them, and John wondered how much they could tell from looking at them.

“We’ll get a cab,” Sherlock said and with that, he walked away.

John grinned at Lestrade. “Let me know if you need statements or something.”

“Um. I think we can just say that you were… _observing_ , if you like.” His eyes flittered over to Sergeant Donovan who rolled her eyes and shrugged in an ‘I don’t give a damn’ motion.

“Sure, whatever is fine with me.” John winked at him and turned. “Good night inspector. Sally,” he added, nodding to her, and then fairly ran after Sherlock.

\---------------------------------------------

They made it back to a main road, but as it was late and they were a bit out of the way, a short walk seemed necessary to find a cab. John almost had to jog to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides, and he always kept a pace ahead of John, not looking back.

Oh God. John was absolutely certain what he wanted. He’d wanted it for a while now, but had never thought about it so much. And now it was all in the open – Sherlock would have to be completely blind to miss it. _And Sherlock himself_ … John swallowed, watching the lean figure before him, knowing how it felt now, tasting him on his tongue still… Shivers ran down his spine.

Would he just brush it off now? Something hot coursed through John’s mind at the thought. No. He wouldn’t let him, he vowed. Not after what they’d just done. It had been an effective distraction, to be sure, but it crossed so many lines that they had never crossed – it was done now, there was no going back. John would pounce on him as soon as he could and he would see if his advances were reciprocated. He had to know.

Finally, they turned into a busier road and Sherlock flagged down a cab. Once they were underway, Sherlock sat stiffly in his seat, looking out of the window. He might look completely serene to an outsider, but John knew him better. He saw the clench of his jaw and how he fiddled with his gloves. He noticed that his breathing was still slightly elevated. Well, there was nothing to be done but wait. John was fidgeting in his seat the entire way, trying and failing to calm his beating heart.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached Baker Street. John nearly vaulted from his seat and got out, digging in his jeans for his wallet. But when he approached the window, Sherlock leaned forward to the driver and said, “actually, can you take me to St. Bart’s hospital please? I’ll pay the whole fare there.”

John froze. “Right you are,” the driver replied, nodded to John and eased the taxi back into traffic before John had a chance to say or do anything. He stood there, wallet forgotten in his hand, gaping at the empty curb, his brain stalled.

Sherlock had _run away_. He had seen a chance and taken it and bolted rather than face John. _Sherlock_ , who never shied away from a challenge or danger, had not even looked at John. He had not even said goodbye.

John blinked and slowly stuffed his wallet back in his jeans. He felt a surge of abandonment rush through him, his stomach tilting. He felt vaguely sick. This was not supposed to happen. John hadn’t even had a chance to say anything. To ask: _Sherlock, do you want this_?

Well, evidently not.

John made his way into 221B in a daze. He tried to stifle the hurt and want and he was tired from the stakeout and tired from the emotional whiplash. He stood in the middle of their sitting room, staring at Sherlock’s chair, feeling forlorn. Finally, he sighed and went to pour himself a whiskey, hoping to calm his frayed nerves. He settled down in his armchair, thinking, and didn’t move.

He had no idea how late it was when the text finally came. He pulled out his phone and blinked at the bright light of the screen. There was one message.

**_I’m sorry, John. SH_ **


	5. ...Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does an experiment of his own.

**_Chapter 05 – “…Indulgence”_ **

* * *

 

Sherlock spent as much time at St. Bart's as he possibly could. It had already been late when they’d returned from the stakeout, so that meant it was the middle of the night. He slid another slide under the microscope, categorising samples from one of Molly’s recent corpses. It was dull busywork; on a normal day he might have enjoyed experimenting on the samples a bit more, but today he barely managed the groundwork without getting distracted.

He had _run away_. He was _Sherlock Holmes_ , the world’s only consulting detective, one of the most brilliant people in London, for crying out loud. He’d faced down addiction, armed murderers, explosives and the bloody British Government – and he was running from _John Watson_?

John, the most unassuming man to ever wander into his life. The man who’d stepped into the mess of 221B Baker Street and for some insane reason had decided to stay. Who was still staying there, right now. Probably sitting in his chair, looking forlorn, wondering what he’d done wrong.

 _Nothing_ , Sherlock wanted to say. _Everything_.

The idiotic man had somehow solidly planted himself by Sherlock’s side, and in his heart (the existence of which had been largely unconfirmed up to that point). Why would he choose Sherlock, of all people? _Idiot, idiot, idiot_ , Sherlock’s mind spun on repeat, wondering why his heart ached and his lips tightened in longing at the thought.

It was just an _experiment_ , nothing more. Fixed parameters, predictable results. Only John, in all his unpredictability, had to go and mess it up completely. He’d somehow brought sentiment into the equation, turning Sherlock’s thoughts upside down, making him daydream of soft kisses tinged with heat and the taste of desire. Once again, the feeling of John pressed against him, crowding him to the wall of the warehouse, arose unbidden and clouded his vision. God, the _sight_ of him. The _taste_ of him. Sherlock could still feel the urge as he’d crouched before John to tear his jeans apart further and simply do what he was pretending to do. If the drug dealer had come by a few minutes later, who knows what might have happened?

 _Stupid_ , how incredibly careless of him. He’d known after that first, surprising kiss and after the surge of jealousy at the bar, that being that close to John would only tempt him to go further. To take, take, take, without thinking of the consequences. And now he had to face them: John, against all expectations, actually _wanted_ him, wanted to give and take as much as Sherlock had, and suddenly the experiment had slipped away from him completely, and Sherlock was caught in a downward slide, no longer in control.

As long as neither of them had been aware of this… whatever it was between them, things had been in a careful equilibrium. Now it had become too obvious to ignore. In the taxi, Sherlock had suddenly realised that John knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how Sherlock really felt. And as soon as they reached Baker Street, John would do something about it.

Well, he’d gotten (run) away, to cold-turkey himself into abstinence. His own fault, really. He had thought that he was completely uninterested in anything of a sexual nature in general, but his own silly experiment had shown him the truth. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was why he latched on to the idea so quickly? Well, the damage was done. He now knew what John Watson _tasted like_ and he couldn’t – _most definitely wouldn’t_ – delete that.

But there was no going forward with it. Sherlock knew himself. He’d take and indulge and then he’d... crash. He would say something and John would be hurt and snap at him and it would be terrible and tedious and sooner or later, he’d leave, disappointed. A cold feeling settled in Sherlock’s chest. God, self-pity was almost as bad as the pining; but he’d gotten through worse.

John would sulk, feeling spurned, but he’d find himself another inane woman to date and he’d get over it, too.

Sherlock tried to ignore the dejected blankness that spread through his chest at the thought. _Bitterness is a paralytic_.

\--------------------------

Sherlock knew that John had left to work at the clinic the following day, so after staying at Bart’s and sneaking home at four o’clock in the morning, he stayed resolutely in his room until John had left. He’d heard him dither outside his door for a few minutes, but thankfully he hadn’t barged in and demanded answers. No, John was far more likely to stew in silence (much like Sherlock himself).

He went out again that night, checking on the homeless network, annoying Molly for a while and visiting his old haunts, seeing if anything interesting (crime, preferably) was going on that might benefit from his attention. However, he drew only blanks (and some very irritated muttering from Molly) and he missed being at home. He liked sitting in his armchair, the fire crackling in the grate, working through some of Lestrade’s cold cases or playing the violin to still his thoughts.

The next day, he deemed it safe enough to face John again. He was not due in the clinic, so Sherlock found him in the sitting room with his laptop when he finally emerged from his room. He sent John wary looks from the corners of his eyes as he puttered around in the kitchen, but for what felt like hours, John steadfastly ignored him. Sherlock braced himself for some kind of tirade of accusations about using people, but it never came.

Instead, John finally got up, calm as it gets, and sauntered into the kitchen to make tea. He muttered a casual “…morning” to Sherlock, who didn’t dare look up until the kettle had boiled, the tea been made, and John was leaving the kitchen again. Just when he turned into the sitting room, Sherlock raised his chin a fraction and looked up from under his lashes. John was looking over his shoulder at him, and Sherlock shrank back from what he saw. His eyes were shouting John’s thoughts across the room loud and clear: _message received, backing off._

Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat as icy tendrils curled in his chest.

\--------------------------------------------

The day after that, John had seemingly calmed down a bit. In fact, he seemed to hum with a kind of restless energy that Sherlock couldn’t explain, but was wary of. Something was up with John.

Finally, in the evening, he stepped up to Sherlock as he sat by his desk, working on his laptop.

“Sherlock, I need your assistance.”

This was the most words John had spoken to him since… that night. Sherlock met the iron gaze and blinked slowly. John’s body was tense, but not from anxiety. His eyes were focussed and unhurried. He had a plan of sorts, something he’d made up his mind about.

“With what?”

“An experiment.”

Sherlock pushed back from his desk and stood. He took a deep breath as he realised John was echoing his exact words back to him. Very well, he might still be wary, but he was curious enough to play. “What’s the hypothesis?”

John shifted his weight, but didn’t budge. “I can’t tell you. It would skew the results. I’m sure you understand.” That last bit sounded like it should be a sneer, but John’s face was guileless as only his could and his voice contained no trace of mockery.

“How can I assist you if I don’t know what I’m doing?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to see what John was getting at. Was it medical? Psychological? Was he just going to _kiss him and see what happened_? It was exactly the kind of romantic nonsense he expected from John. Yet he felt strangely thrilled and his resolve slackened a little as he took in John’s confident, no-nonsense stance. _Stubborn to a fault._

“You don’t need to do anything. I just need permission to experiment.” John clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Sherlock leaned forward a little, squaring his jaw. “…on me?” He felt a smirk curl on his lip, but quickly subdued it.

John did not flinch back. “Seems only fair, you experiment on me all the time,” he shrugged, and this time, the faint vitriol was definitely there. His eyes flashed with hurt and anger for a second, reminding Sherlock that John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was not a man to be trifled with. Not someone you used and then put aside. A shiver went down his spine.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” John’s tone was back to carefully neutral, but there was still the challenge, the turnabout’s-fair-play kind of attitude.

Sherlock forced himself to sigh as if bored, even though he was anything but. “How long is this going to take?”

“Three days.” Looks at the watch. “Starting on your word.”

Now, Sherlock was definitely bewildered. But also intrigued. Wary. A little terrified. His head jerked in a nod, trying for a disinterested hum. “Well. Have at it then.”

“Good enough for me.” John abruptly turned on the spot and walked away.

Sherlock felt as if he’d been slapped. He’d prepared for a kiss, a punch or something in between, but…. “What about the experiment?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as uncertain as he felt.

“In progress,” John merely said, leaving Sherlock in complete bewilderment.

\--------------------------------------------

The next three days were to become the most trying Sherlock had ever experienced living with John.

It didn’t take him long to chart a pattern in John’s changed behaviour, though the first few times it happened, it startled the hell out of Sherlock.

First, John simply let their fingers brush when he handed him the paper. Sherlock felt like he’d touched an open wire. A little bit later, he absently let his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder when he looked at the laptop. Then, he had his shoulder pressed briefly against Sherlock’s when he sat on the couch. It went on.

John was touching him. Deliberately. As much as he could without it being too obvious, even knowing that it was of course spectacularly blatant to Sherlock. Small, affectionate gestures like the brush of a hand over his hair, the hand at the small of his back when he led him through a door, the generally gentle presence of standing a little too close.

His manner also changed. No longer was he ignoring Sherlock or snubbing him; he was friendly in a casual way, smiling faintly and holding a few conversations. It was more pleasant than the icy silence from before, but it was still… fake. John didn’t really look happy, and Sherlock hated that he could tell. Was he only torturing him with the touches to punish him? Or where they as secretly welcome and comforting as they were to Sherlock?

Because he had to admit, whatever this experiment was doing, it was kind of working. Sherlock found himself charting the touches, cataloguing them, counting them, sorting them by degree of intimacy in his head (from 0.1 for the lingering fingertips over a cup of tea up to the current maximum of 5.2 when John ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s hair, giving him goose bumps down to his toes.)

Sherlock resisted. He didn’t reciprocate, mostly because there was no time to do it – the touches were as fleeting as they were infrequent. Sherlock had to concentrate, but he had managed to get himself somewhat under control when John suddenly upped the ante.

On day two, John stepped out of the shower in nothing but a towel. The large, blue fluffy fabric was wrapped around his waist, leaving nothing above and everything below to Sherlock’s vivid imagination. John traipsed around the kitchen, making breakfast and showing no inclination to get dressed anytime soon. When he was done eating (only John could make that look so _suggestive_ ) he took his sweet time about washing the bloody dishes and making more tea.

Sherlock suddenly stood in the kitchen door, unsure how he’d gotten there. But now he couldn’t help himself as John offered a cup to him; he was ogling him, there was no other word for it. He felt his cheeks grow warm as he remembered touching that strong chest and those firm arms through only a thin layer of shirt. He remembered the erection trapped in John’s jeans. His gaze dropped momentarily downwards before he rallied himself with a shiver.

He thought he saw a faint trace of amusement in John’s eyes and he abruptly drew himself back. “ _John_ ,” he groused, unable to stop himself. “This is childish. Whatever you’re trying to…” He suddenly stopped and swallowed.

John gave him an innocent look. “Trying to what? I’ve just made tea,” he said, and swanned past him to sit in his armchair.

God, the man was infuriating! So calm! Unconcerned! And if Sherlock admitted that these blatant ( _obvious! crude!_ ) attempts to seduce him were actually doing something to him then he lost. The… game? Experiment? Was that something one could lose? _What was the damn hypothesis?!_ How long Sherlock could stand this foolishness before he snapped? He tried to ignore the pangs in his stomach as he wrestled down his baser instincts as well as the hurt he felt over John’s strange behaviour. And a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, _taste of your own medicine._

He blinked rapidly, still staring at the spot John had vacated, tea forgotten in his hand.

\-------------

On day three, Sherlock was convinced he couldn’t take it any longer. He was geared up like a caged tiger, high on the adrenaline of John’s increasing touches. He knew the exact time the experiment had begun, and for the last few hours, Sherlock had pretended to work on a case but actually watched the clock on the mantle tick away the time until this all made sense.

He paced the flat. _Finally_ , John came home after work and shopping. It was nearly time for the grand finale. Sherlock followed John around the flat as he took his jacket and shoes off and put the shopping away. John ignored it.

At one minute to zero, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when John finally, deliberately laid his hand on his shoulder.

He spun around. “Well?”

John regarded him calmly. “Well, what?”

“The experiment. Your _bloody secret experiment_.” Sherlock gestured at the clock. “It’s over now.”

John looked at the clock even though Sherlock knew he knew exactly what time it was.

He huffed a small, humourless laugh, pretending to sound surprised. “Ah. So it is.”

“And?” Sherlock loomed in his personal space now, staring John down, yet the man would not flinch.

“And… nothing. That’s all it took.” John squared his shoulders under the onslaught of the Sherlockian glower.

“All it took – _to find out what exactly_?!”

“That’s still under wraps, I’m afraid. I’m still working on the results.”

Sherlock began pacing again, gesturing wildly at John. “ _Working_ , what work, you’re _not working,_ you were shopping, how is that _work_?!”

John allowed a somewhat sad smile to curl on his lips. He cocked his head. “Sherlock... you’ve deduced the entire thing on day one, so why are you so furious that I won’t spell it out for you? It’s hardly a _secret_ , is it?” He gave Sherlock a long look. “Nothing much is, living with you.”

And there it was. Sherlock had no answer to that. Because of course he was right.

\------------------

The next day, John was away, doing… something. Sherlock hadn’t been entirely listening when he’d left, too lost in his thoughts. However, he had noticed the absence of John much quicker than normally. The flat had gone quiet and somewhat cold. By the time the afternoon rolled around, Sherlock had gone without John touching him for 24 hours.

During the previous days, allowing for regular sleep times, on average, John had touched him approximately once every 63 minutes.

24 hours was absolute torture.

No… Sherlock recognized it. It wasn’t torture, exactly, it was _withdrawal_.

Oh. Sherlock felt confused for a moment when the thought hit him. He was annoyed, yes, pissed off, actually, that John would do that sort of thing to a former addict, and yet… he was also quite impressed.

John had known exactly what the result of his experiment would be, because he knew Sherlock so well. He used the fact that he could predict his behaviour and made it work for him to prove his point. Sherlock was more than mesmerized by this clever and devious move. If anything, it only made the warm appreciation that was humming inside his chest grow louder still. Coupled with a desperate itch for _payback_.

“Yoo hoo!” Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t heard Mrs Hudson’s steps until she was inside the room. She carried a tin.

“You made biscuits,” Sherlock deduced from the smell.

“Yes, so come and have some while they’re fresh, dear.” She put the kettle on, humming a tune.

Sherlock struggled from his chair and dragged himself to the kitchen. He hadn’t bothered getting dressed – _boring_ – and hadn’t found the will to eat anything; yet the smell of the biscuits bypassed his conscious reasoning and went straight to his stomach, which growled in anticipation. _Tedious_. He morosely grabbed a biscuit and began munching on it in silence.

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow, watching him. “What’s happened?”

“Hm?”

“You’re sulking.”

“John is bullying me,” Sherlock glowered at his biscuit as if it alone was at fault.

Mrs Hudson merely scoffed at his words. “Oh Sherlock!” she exclaimed and waved a hand, as if that could not possibly be true.

Sherlock popped the rest of the crumbly treat in his mouth and then grabbed two cups from the cupboard. “He is! He is _tormenting_ me,” he threw two teabags into the cups, “entirely unduly; he’s being unreasonable and stubborn,” he tossed some sugar into his and some sweetener in the other cup for Mrs Hudson, “—and the whole thing is completely _idiotic_.” Well, it certainly felt good to say it out loud.

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”

Sherlock huffed and frowned at the kettle until it boiled. He poured the water over the teabags and then leaned against the counter, sighing heavily.

Mrs Hudson came over and gently put a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, what did you do?”

He bristled. “What did _I_ do? What makes you think _I_ did anything?!”

Mrs Hudson merely raised both eyebrows and gave him that look. That _we-both-know-I’m-right_ kind of look. But Sherlock wouldn’t relent. “What?”

“Sherlock,” she said patiently. “This is _John_ we’re talking about.”

Sherlock sighed, frowning. She had a point there. John had a strong moral compass and was a loyal friend (more than a friend). Of course he’d only….

“I—I may have been a bit—I may have—I—,“ he suddenly started and then stopped again. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling them in frustration. He turned and got the teabags out of the tea and stirred in the milk, feeling good about distracting himself with his hands.

“Oh Sherlock, why don’t you just talk to him? I’m sure it can’t have been that bad. Just apologize. See what he has to say and hash it out.”

“Dull. Tedious.”

“So is _this_ ,” she gestured in his general area. Then she took the offered teacup, tutting to herself. “ _Honestly_. _Men._ ”

Hm. _Talking_. About his _feelings_. A last resort, certainly, but perhaps desperate times called for desperate measures.

\----------------------

John had returned after work, taken a shower and was stepping carefully into the sitting room when Sherlock pounced on him.

He hadn’t meant to, actually.

He’d had this whole speech planned in his mind, about how he was attracted to John and how he was sorry he used the experiment and the case as an excuse. He’d thought – _really_! – that the _talking_ might be a good idea.

But then John had walked in, hair wet, still in the act of buttoning up his shirt, and something in Sherlock simply short-circuited.

He’d bounded off the sofa and into John, and was now somehow backing him into the kitchen table. John looked up at him, his lips slightly parted, perhaps in surprise, but he didn’t dither or act confused. Instead, there was a low-burning fire in his eyes, a contained intensity that drew Sherlock ever closer.

“John,” he said, his voice low and quiet. Some deeper part of himself seemed to have taken over, something very base and primal guiding his body, and his brain could only lean back and watch. He leaned in and lowered his head to John’s neck, not touching him, just taking in the warmth radiating from his skin, the fresh smell of the shower, the slight flush of John’s skin. “You’re back,” he murmured, completely unnecessarily. A slight tremor went through John’s frame at his words, and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction.

He pulled back and his eyes searched John’s. A small smirk played around his lips, and he saw John answer with one of his own secret smiles, the one where his eyes lit up from inside and no one but Sherlock would notice. It was as if they were having a conversation entirely without words, finally being on the same page.

_I figured it out, like you said. Clever._

_Took you long enough._

What John actually said was, “dinner?” His quiet voice had dropped another octave and the sound went straight to Sherlock’s knees. John looked at him as if he was contemplating having him for dinner instead. It was thrilling.

Something finally gave, and Sherlock felt what remained of his meagre resolve melt away. Screw not indulging. If John wanted this, on his head be it. Let the consequences be something they worried about tomorrow.

He slowly, deliberately took John’s hand.

“Starving.” He smiled and briefly pressed his lips to it before he quickly withdrew to his bedroom to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I thought I'd manage to get this all done in one chapter, but now it's going to be two, so here's the first part for you so you don't have to wait that much longer :-) Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos, they really make my day every time <3


	6. ...Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there ever a date that isn't interrupted by crime? ;-)

**_Chapter 06 – “…Adrenaline”_ **

* * *

 

John jogged up the stairs to his room, taking two at a time. He hadn’t felt this motivated to get dressed for a date in a long time. And the most bizarre of dates it would be. For one, he was taking his flatmate (who happened to be a man) on said date. Second, that flatmate also happened to be _Sherlock_ , a person John had not thought capable of knowing what a date _was_. Third, he and said clueless flatmate had already made out quite passionately on numerous occasions now (okay, not so clueless, actually), at least one of which had been pure indulgence, no matter what Sherlock might think.

Once again, he didn’t quite understand why Sherlock had bolted that night. At the same time, neither had he expected for his little experiment to really produce any results. Sometimes, Sherlock’s sudden one-eighties truly gave John emotional whiplash.

That they wanted each other was embarrassingly transparent at this point. That was not to say John wasn’t worried. He knew going down this path with Sherlock would irrevocably alter their relationship, for better or for worse – and precisely that was up in the air at this point. Sherlock was a wild card in any given situation, who knew how he’d react to… intimacy? Another stab of arousal shot through John, and he tried to calm himself, doing up the buttons of his dark blue shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, feeling completely silly. No, this was definitely about more than just sex, for John. But what exactly was it to Sherlock at this point?

The entire cab ride, John could not keep his eyes of Sherlock. He’d chosen to wear his bloody purple shirt of course, under his impeccable dark suit. John sighed inwardly, wishing he could in any way keep up with that kind of effortless grace, but Sherlock seemed to read his mind and quickly sent him a flash of a glance, his eye lit up in pleasure, that assuaged John’s worries. He remembered Sherlock shuddering under his lips, pressed against the wall of the warehouse. A thrill of power went through him again at the idea that he could make Sherlock feel like that.

They arrived at Angelo’s after a short stint in London evening traffic. Sherlock had given the driver the address without even having to ask John. Their destination had been obvious to them both. Angelo waved them in enthusiastically, settled them at their usual table and this time, nobody protested the addition of a romantic candle.

John would later be hard-pressed to recall exactly how long he and Sherlock sat at their table, eating, drinking wine and talking in a strange hushed tone that seemed entirely new to them both. The evening went on in a softly lit blur, a warm sensation of happiness and anticipation being all that John really could swear to experiencing.

Sherlock actually ate, but he didn’t take his eyes off John. At some point, their knees brushed, and John shuffled just an inch closer to make sure they stayed that way. Sherlock leaned closer when he spoke, his deep baritone chuckle reverberating all the way through John’s core. Sherlock smirked in a way that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and made John’s brain dissolve.

Of course, Sherlock was still himself. He deduced the other patrons a little bit too loudly, making one woman leave indignantly and her husband trying to revenge himself with his fists before both John and Angelo intervened rather physically. John promised Angelo it wouldn’t happen again. Sherlock called John an idiot for thinking he could ensure that and nibbled stoically on a bread stick. But then John leaned in closer and promised dire consequences if he didn’t behave and suddenly Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath hitched. “I’d be a fool to argue with my doctor, I suppose,” he murmured darkly, a twinkle in his eye.

“Thank God you’re no fool,” John said, his face close enough to feel Sherlock’s answering breath rushing out against his skin.

After that, Sherlock focussed his entire considerable attention simply on John. He internally deduced every single facial expression, John could tell from his rapidly moving eyes. Sherlock, after all, was Sherlock, and he was clearly now experimenting with just what kind of effect he could have on John if he chose to. John was, for lack of a better word, flattered. He’d known Sherlock could be charming if he wanted to, but this was stunningly genuine. Sherlock seemed like a boy enjoying a new game he’d finally understood how to play. John kept waiting for the façade to crack, for Sherlock to roll his eyes at the silliness of dating and to just leave to experiment on something more interesting.

But Sherlock stayed. And laughed and talked and _bloody flirted_ with John. That was not to say that John didn’t give as good as he got. At first, he felt himself blush and look away, ready to reign in his reactions to Sherlock, as he’d always done. But then he remembered that he was the one who had actually drawn Sherlock out with his unnerving closeness and casual touches over the past few days. He _could want this_ , Sherlock had shown him that much. John pulled himself up a bit straighter and met Sherlock’s eye more steadily. _Oh_ , this was achingly perfect, being allowed to just let himself go and show Sherlock exactly what he was in for.

He casually brushed their fingers together on the table. When Sherlock was being amusing or appreciated something John had said, John allowed himself to truly show how happy that made him. He thought that he usually wore his heart on his sleeve; well, here was the bloody placard. Let the entire restaurant, Mycroft’s cameras, every passer-by who happened to glance through the window see: John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock seemed at first taken aback at the open, honest admiration shining his way. His lips parted and he looked confused, properly confounded for a moment, before something like pleased understanding dawned on his features. _They were really doing this_. He quickly drained the last of his wine, his eyes burning like fire into John’s. Suddenly, he knew this was it. They had to get out of there and get back home as quickly as possible or John wouldn’t vouch for his composure much longer.

It was late. They hastily pulled on their jacket and coat and Sherlock reluctantly pocketed his wallet when a relentless Angelo refused his money once again. They stepped out of the restaurant and John shivered when the cold night air came into contact with his heated skin. Darkness settled on the empty streets, slick from rain. John felt as if he was going to explode if he didn’t get to kiss Sherlock in less than five seconds.

He turned half-way, already standing close enough to touch him, but then he froze. Sherlock was standing still, staring at his phone. The screen illuminated his face as he frowned at it.

“What is it?” John stepped a bit closer, trying to see. Without thinking about it, his hand hovered over Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock looked at him, his face disturbed and torn. It looked like for once, he couldn’t decide how to. Some of the passion from a few minutes before still simmered underneath, yet now it was tampered with worry.

“It’s the man from the drugs bust the other night. He was found dead in the factory next to the warehouse.”

John saw the text from Lestrade. _Can you come?_ it said, and John could practically hear the words in the man’s pleading voice.

“Well,” John cleared his throat and zipped up his jacket, his body slowly cooling down, his mind adjusting to the new situation. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, his lips softening into a smile. He seemed glad that it was John who made the decision. John returned the smile. _We’re good. Plenty of time_.

 _I’ll hold you to that_. Sherlock’s eyes bored into his a second longer, before he flung his arm out, hailing the nearest cab.

\--------------------------

They found the police in a small make-shift shipping office in a large container next to the warehouse of the original drugs dop. It was functional; a desk, a couple of chairs, an outdated laptop and a few empty shelves the only things in the room.

Sherlock watched as John stepped forward, efficient as ever, to kneel by the body. Who here could guess that not half an hour ago, this same John Watson had been ready to devour Sherlock alive if they didn’t get in a cab (and somebody’s bed) quickly enough? The doctor’s hands moved over the silent form on the ground, examining the eyes, the mouth, the neck. Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from the precision in those hands. He realised it was _a bit not good_ to be turned on next to a dead body, but…. He usually felt exhilarated by a case, so perhaps his brain was getting its wires crossed? Whatever the reasons, it was enough to drive him insane. His skin was still burning from before and, more annoyingly, his groin was protesting at the tease without a follow-through. Most tedious.

“Why are we here again?” He turned to glare at Lestrade.

The DI ran his hands through his hair. “Well, you were the ones to catch him,” he shrugged. “And… uh, the room was locked from the inside, there’s no murder weapon, no obvious cause of death and we don’t even know how he got from his holding cell to here in the last few hours, so I thought…” he trailed off.

“Yes,” he mused. “So of course this has nothing to do with the fact that you’re clueless, tired and really just want this solved as quickly as possible so you can go back home where you hope that lovely redhead from reception will still be waiting for you.” Lestrade gaped. The people around them had fallen silent. Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together with a loud smack. “Well! For once, Detective Inspector, we find ourselves in similar positions. I also would very much like to get back to my date, which you so rudely interrupted. So let’s solve this and go home, shall we?” Sherlock gave him a cheerful grin and turned back to the body. “John?”

John stared at him, mouth slightly open in amused shock. He snorted through his nose but Sherlock saw his eyes darken and his cheeks flush. He blinked, then quickly pulled himself together as he realised his hand was still resting on the dead man’s pale throat. “Asphyxiated,” he said as calmly as he could.

Lestrade was looking between them as if the Queen had just bestowed him a knighthood. His lips parted and he gaped at John, then at Sherlock, then back at John, and a twinkle entered his eyes. “ _Date_?” he mouthed, and John lowered his face to stop smiling. Dead body and all. Sherlock found it incredibly endearing, if pointless (nobody here cared either way) but he was also aware that all of this bantering was taking _too long_.

“ _You two_?” Lestrade mouthed with an even more intrigued look. Luckily none of his officers stood close or they might have asked why their Detective Inspector suddenly looked positively gleeful at a crime scene. Perhaps Sherlock was rubbing off on him. John shot Sherlock a ravenous look, one that sent his brain spinning for a moment. Then he smiled back at Lestrade and shrugged. Lestrade huffed a silent laugh and then cleared his throat. “Right. You sure?”

“Yes, yes, he’s sure,” Sherlock replied before John could explain every single sign of asphyxiation. Time was of the essence. “Just because your team takes forever to determine a cause of death doesn’t mean there’s any doubt. Now.”

He stood and walked over to the door. “The room was locked from the inside. Our killer broke out the deceased from a holding cell – no small feat, I imagine – therefore, we’re looking for someone with significant experience in high-profile burglary. He’ll have known how to get around the security cameras at the Met; locking a door from the inside after he left can’t have been much of a challenge.” Sherlock picked up a thin white thread that clung to the opened lock of the door. “No doubt some ingenious mechanism that triggered once the door was pulled shut.”

A forensics officer quickly hurried forward and let him drop the thread into an evidence bag, looking as if Sherlock was going to swallow the evidence otherwise. He sighed at the idiocy of everyone besides John in the room. _John_ … he quickly looked around …was watching him, an amused smile lingering on his face. All good then.

“Someone with that kind of skillset who also had something to lose by this man confessing everything – and he would have, he was a coward – now that should lower the potential suspects down considerably. The murder weapon is the more interesting bit.”

He stepped over to the body again. “John, what’s your estimation of the state of his throat?”

John clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, if he wasn’t dead, I’d be hard-pressed to say he _was_ strangled at all.” He kneeled again and pointed. “Do you see these small marks?”

Lestrade kneeled by his side, examining two small, faint bruises in the dead flesh, just underneath the man’s jaw. “Yes?”

“Easy to miss here,” John soothed, hoping obviously not to insult the incompetent forensics team further. “But I’m sure they would have picked up on it at the morgue.”

“Yes, yes, John, stop being nice,” Sherlock muttered, earning him a fond eye roll from John.

“The killer pressed these two points to obstruct the air flow. The victim must have been drugged very heavily. Even if he was only asleep or lightly sedated, the body would have reacted instinctively to the lack of oxygen and begun to struggle. But there’s absolutely no sign of any fight, otherwise the bruises would be more pronounced or there would be additional injuries.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, rubbing his chin. “And he couldn’t have already been dead then?”

“His eyes and skin discoloration points towards asphyxiation, but of course you’d have to confirm all of this with the autopsy.”

“Of course he wasn’t already dead,” Sherlock scoffed. “If he’d died from the drugs he was given, there would be signs – dried sweat, frothing, saliva on his clothes, something like that. But he’s clean and looks fine… well, apart from being dead.” He stood up again.

“So… no murder weapon, then.” Lestrade looked disappointed. Sherlock knew the man liked a nice and obvious gun or knife at the scene, but he was rarely so lucky.”

“No…” he mused, but then walked quickly over to the single window. It was only a brief glimpse in the dark, but was sure that someone just slipped into the warehouse.

“Sherlock?” John was immediately by his side. Of course he’d picked up on it.

Sherlock pointed back at the body, speaking rapidly. “There’s a reason he did it here. He needed to come back and he killed two birds with one stone like this. Keep you baffled at the crime scene while he gets the rest of the goods.” He swirled around and rushed out of the door, John and Lestrade right on his heels.

“Sherlock, wait!”

He didn’t. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he ran for the warehouse. The game was on.

\----------------------

Of course, everything went south very quickly after that. The suspect was indeed in the process of retrieving the rest of his merchandise in the warehouse, but one of Lestrade’s officers had gotten in his way by the door. He’d dragged the young man with him to a back room, where Sherlock confronted him. What he hadn’t counted on was that it was rather difficult to manoeuvre in this office, especially in the dark. The man managed to shine his torchlight right in Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, blinding him, and had quickly immobilized him, a practised hand restraining his arms whilst another pressed a knife to his throat. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a minute.

Footsteps came closer. Sherlock heard John calling his name. He desperately tried to kick the killer holding him, but his stupid coat got in the way. He was also partly focussed on the young policeman clutching his side, blood slowly seeping out, his face contorted in agony. Wound not too deep; painful but probably manageable if help got here fast.

“Jones!”

“SHERLOCK!”

John and Lestrade took in the scene even as the murderer slowly backed away to the other door. Sherlock’s eyes did not leave John. He could see he was planning something, anything, probably something reckless. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and saw John frown. The man dragged him along, there was nothing he could do. Sherlock deliberately moved his eyes to the doorway through which John and Lestrade had come. Then he looked aside, trying to indicate the door he was being pulled towards. _There’s another way_.

John’s eyes lit up with understanding. His eyes flickered to the doorway and he nodded. He stopped moving forward. The last thing Sherlock saw before he was dragged through the door and it fell closed was John’s determined look, fists clenched at his sides.

\----------------------------

As soon as the door clicked shut, Lestrade yelled orders for an ambulance into his radio; but John was already leaving, hearing the DI shout after him. He jogged back through the warehouse, frantically looking around.

“John! Where are you going?!”

John ran to another door. He didn’t even feel his feet hit the ground; all he could sense was his violently beating heart and his pulse throbbing in his temples. All he could think was that he had to get to Sherlock.

The murderer was dragging a squirming, resisting man, he couldn’t have gotten further up than the first floor. That was, of course, assuming that Sherlock was right (he usually was) and that the back corridor led to the staircase. John had no time to second-guess the looks he’d given him. He ran up the secondary stairwell, taking two steps at a time. He thanked his luck that the factory was old as he began kicking at the door to the first floor. After a few kicks, the lock finally gave and the door swung inwards.

After a few turns, he reached the open space of the main factory floor again. Around the hall, a metal walkway stretched alongside the wall. When he peered through the door, he noticed it was even darker up here. But Sherlock had been right; he could hear two sets of footsteps ascending and clanging loudly on the metal grating. He withdrew when he noticed them coming closer and waited for his moment. Slowly, the steps became louder. John held his breath. He heard Sherlock struggle, and both men were breathing loudly through their mouths with the effort.

Finally, he was close enough. In one fluid motion, John stepped through the doorway, immediately into the path of the killer. Clearly, he hadn’t expected him; the man jumped violently, drawing back. But then he made his first and final mistake. He removed the knife from Sherlock’s throat and thrust it towards his newest foe, and that was all the opening John needed.

With speed and unerring precision, he twisted the man’s arm and pulled his body off-centre. The killer let go of Sherlock; he was surprised and not expecting this kind of opposition from John. He still tried plunging the knife forward even as Sherlock finally slipped from his grasp, coughing, ducking away a step, _breathing_. John felt better instantly and hooked his legs around the man’s, brought up a hand against his shoulder and flipped him, using his loss of balance to tip him sideways. One hand shot out and twisted the knife from him; John quickly kicked it away when it landed, sending it tumbling down to the factory floor below. He had him now.

Sherlock had stumbled to his feet. “John…” he rasped and grabbed something in his pocket. The killer struggled and rambled something aggressive, readying for another attack. John quickly rammed his elbow in his nose and heard a satisfying crack that shut him up. He turned him around, pulling his arms behind his back; Sherlock shuffled closer, still coughing, and brought out a zip tie (of course he had one in his pocket, John thought) to wrap sloppily around the hands John was holding forcefully together. With a sharp tug, Sherlock tightened the hold, drawing a startled cry from their quarry.

Once the man was tied up, John forced him on his knees and the man tumbled to his side, coughing and spluttering with his nosebleed, but unable to do much else. He just let him slump there and stepped back. John heard footsteps ascending the stairs to their level quickly, but he ignored them for now.

All his focus was on Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall, steadying himself, rubbing his throat. He was breathing heavily, looking a bit sick. John felt something twist in his stomach; rage and possessiveness and fierce protectiveness. Nobody was going to touch Sherlock ever again, to threaten him like this, or….

John stepped up to him, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “All right…?” he managed, Sherlock’s scorching glance drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

“Yes… yes, of course I’m…” Sherlock swallowed and stopped himself, reaching out with one hand. “ _John_ ,” he whispered.

That was all he could take.

John rushed forward, into Sherlock’s arms, pressing him up to the wall and then he was kissing him.

Sherlock moaned as their lips met, the sound being absorbed into John as he parted his lips, setting his nerves on fire. His tongue plunged into Sherlock and felt a tremor go through the body in his arms. Hands ran down his back and he felt them draw him even closer, sending stabs of pure need directly to his groin.

Amongst panting kisses, John was whispering his name and _you’re safe_ and Sherlock simply breathed him in, murmuring _oh God John_ and clinging on for dear life, and their soft voices mingled in the electrified air between them. John felt like he was drowning, all the adrenaline making his head spin and then he remembered they were on a walkway quite high up in the large factory hall and he stopped himself for a moment to fight the vertigo. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s, catching his breath, steadying them both.

“ _John_ …” God, Sherlock sounded wrecked. It set John’s chest on fire. He looked up and their eyes met before John leaned in again to…

“Oh! Hello…?”

John jumped and immediately stepped back, startled by Lestrade’s voice. The DI had managed to follow them, finally, his gun drawn. Two more police officers were running up behind him, but Lestrade waved backwards. “Stand down, it’s under control…” he coughed. “Or at least, one of them is,” he added with a relieved snort, glancing at the resigned lump of a man on the floor.

The officers came up to him and secured the culprit, pulling him to his feet. They left down the stairwell again and Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock, who still maintained a decidedly deliberate distance. He rocked back on his heels, grinned at John and wiggled his eyebrows. He lowered his voice a bit. “Well!” He sounded relieved. “Couldn’t wait to get back to your _date_ , huh?”

John stared at him, then at Sherlock. He took a deep breath. A smile quirked on his lip. “Oh… it was just… an experiment.”

Sherlock’ answering smile slowly bloomed on his face, and he laughed.

John sobered a little, straightened his jacket and raised his chin. A few more things needed doing. “Your officer…?”

“Oh!” Lestrade remembered. “He’s okay. Jones’ ribs reflected the knife and he’s responsive and not losing too much blood.” He finally held out his arm to indicate that they should probably get back downstairs.

“Do you want me to have a look?” John opened the door that brought them back to the corridor Sherlock had been dragged from and took the stairs.

“Ta, much appreciated, doctor,” Lestrade said, before glancing at Sherlock. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock drawled, but John thought he heard traces of insecurity… and perhaps arousal in his voice. Both made him shudder. He needed Sherlock alone, back at Baker Street, as quickly as possible.

Downstairs, two people were holding pressure on Jones’ wound. John kneeled next to the man and asked them to give him some space. He began examining the wound – thankfully, it really wasn’t deep. The young man looked up at Sherlock, his face pale. “T-thanks,” he muttered, giving the detective a weak smile. “Saved my life.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in acknowledgement, and John felt him shift uncomfortably.

The man smiled even as he winced. “They really shouldn’t call you freak,” he muttered.

John felt his heart warm a little more towards the guy. “Too right, but stop talking,” he chided gently, probing the wound before pressing whatever piece of clothing had been sacrificed back against it.

“You’ll be fine, the wound is only superficial – it hurts worse than it is.”

The man coughed a little. “That it fucking does, pardon me Doctor Watson.”

John laughed and gestured for the policewoman next to them to come closer again. “What you did was the only thing we can do until the paramedics get here,” he said and returned her hand to press on the fabric. She nodded and kneeled back beside his patient. John already heard the sirens of the ambulance outside and knew his work here was done.

He got up and almost without noticing it, he reached out. Sherlock moved closer as well, a small smile lighting up his tired face. He grabbed John’s hand and didn’t let go.

He looked at Lestrade. “You’ll get our statements tomorrow, Greg,” he said, his voice still rough. Lestrade looked surprised but pleased and gave them both a warm smile.

“I’ll make sure of it,” John added. He grinned and gave one last nod to Lestrade before he and Sherlock walked out, hands clasped tightly together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, thanks for sticking with me for so long - now there's just one more chapter of smut to get to! ;-) Also find me on Tumblr (julia-irian-writes) if you want to get in touch, I love chatting to people :-D


	7. Love

**_Chapter 07 – “…Love”_**  

* * *

 

During the ride home, John tried to calm himself a little. He looked at his and Sherlock’s hands, still entwined tightly on the seat between them. He took several deep breaths. They spent the trip home in silence. Sherlock was looking out of the window, deep in thought. John felt an uncomfortable déjà vu from their last ride home together, when Sherlock had simply bolted. This time, John was prepared. When they got to Baker Street, he paid the cabbie inside the car and deliberately lingered to wait for Sherlock to exit first.

Sherlock was unlocking the door. When they stepped in and hung up their coats, he sent John a sideways glance. “I saw that. It was unnecessary.”

John smiled a little ruefully. “Sorry. Just…” He took a daring step towards Sherlock. He remembered his look in the warehouse. He knew he wanted this. John just had to barrel on now and hope for the best. He took Sherlock’s hand again. “Just worried you might change your mind again.”

Sherlock swallowed. “John, I—“ He seemed to be lost for words. But his eyes suddenly reminded John of the uncertainty during their first kiss. This was new and uncharted territory for Sherlock.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain.” John squeezed his hand a little and quietly added, “but, just so we’re clear. I take it that this… _whatever it is_ , isn’t going to be much of a secret?” Some of the officers on Lestrade’s team had either heard Sherlock’s comment about their date, or seen them leave holding hands. It was only a matter of time before the news spread.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up hesitantly. “Did you want it to be?”

John cocked his head sideways. “Well… I wouldn’t have minded a little time to, um, figure things out…” he glanced at Sherlock. “To know that you were sure you wanted this. You know, before I had to explain myself to someone like Sally.”

“You don’t owe her, or anyone, an explanation,” Sherlock scowled.

“I know that.” John held tight onto Sherlock’s hand, feeling him slowly pull away. “It’s not me I’m worried about you idiot, it’s you.”

“Me?!” Sherlock looked completely bewildered. “What’s there to worry about?” His cheeks had turned a bit red and he quickly turned away from John, striding up the stairs.

John sighed and followed him. Upstairs, Sherlock flung himself on the sofa. Well, at least they’d made it back to 221B. John immediately felt a lot safer. Home turf. He took his shoes off and sat on the sofa next to him, resting a hand on Sherlock’s leg.

“I’m fine, John.”

“I know. I just need to know what you expect or want… or don’t want. I’m not—“ John swallowed. “ _Christ_. Look, Sherlock, I’m not exactly good at this sort of thing. And neither are you.” Sherlock grunted in agreement. “But, um—“ he let his hand wander upwards on Sherlock’s leg, his heart hammering in his chest. He was really doing this. “We seemed to certainly agree on a few things earlier tonight, so—“

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his, darkening immediately. John licked his lips. “Why don’t we just… pick up where we left off and worry about the talking later?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and sat up straight. He blinked, facing John, suddenly so close. He could smell Sherlock’s aftershave, the warmth radiating from his body. He thought of their date earlier and how he’d practically undressed Sherlock with his eyes. Well, perhaps that was as a good place to start as any.

John raised his hands slowly and placed them on the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket. He slowly let his hands wander under the lapels, caressing the ridiculously soft shirt underneath. He saw Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. “John—“ he breathed. “That’s a rather good idea.”

John smiled. “I’ve been known to have them on occasion,” he murmured softly. He pushed the jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders and let it slide down his back. Then, he gently took each thin, elegant wrist in hand and undid the buttons of the cuffs. Sherlock was watching him, spellbound. When John’s hands wandered to the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock finally responded. He raised his own hand to John’s head and ran his hand through his hair. John sighed, craving the touch. Sherlock let his hand wander down to his neck and gently caressed the soft hair there. John shivered.

As John was slowly working his way down the buttons on Sherlock’s chest, the hand on his neck pulled him closer, until his forehead rested against Sherlock’s. “John…” he felt the whisper against his lips. And that was it. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He crushed his lips to Sherlock’s in a messy kiss, throwing them both back against the sofa. Sherlock didn’t hesitate and pulled him closer, his other hand wrapping around John’s waist and coming to rest possessively on the small of his back.

John slipped one leg over Sherlock’s and wrapped his hands in the gorgeous curls. He felt as if his entire body was bursting into flame. Finally, there was no experiment, no case, no excuses. Nobody could get in the way, John thought wildly. He had admitted it, wanted it, craved it, and now he could simply _take_ … the knowledge was intoxicating.

Sherlock was no less eager. He pulled John’s shirt from his trousers and slipped his hands underneath. John heard him grumble in annoyance when he encountered another layer underneath the shirt. John chuckled a little into their kiss as Sherlock struggled to pull the vest from his trousers, but quickly shut up when Sherlock’s palms finally connected with his skin. Sherlock sighed, a hot breath of air against John’s cheek, and his large hands began roaming John’s back, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine.

Their kiss slowed. Sherlock gently explored with his tongue, and John suddenly felt his throat constrict and his eyes well up. It seemed as if Sherlock was trying to learn his body with his tongue and hands and _Christ,_ was that a thought that would keep him up every night from now on.

John blinked quickly to fight the overwhelming emotions and let his hands wander back to the front of Sherlock’s shirt. He blindly continued to unbutton it until the pale expanse of his chest was bared in front of him. He broke the kiss and in a daze, looked down at Sherlock, coming undone beneath him. He pressed his palm against Sherlock’s wildly beating heart and just… took in that image, feeling and seeing the chest rise beneath his hand, safe and sound. His eyes wandered from the smooth skin up, up, up again to the long, elegant neck, the precise jawline, the striking cheekbones and finally rested on Sherlock’s kaleidoscopic eyes. “Gorgeous,” John whispered. The widening eyes and adorable blush from Sherlock emboldened him and he pushed himself up to straddle Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock took in a sharp breath and for a moment, John hovered, not really sure whether he was allowed to lower himself down or not. But then Sherlock’s eyes grew hungry and he let his hands trail down John’s back until they rested on his hips. With a sharp tug, he pulled John forward and down, and John’s noticeable erection was pressed against Sherlock’s in his lap. Sherlock let out a small moan and John mumbled his name, grasping for Sherlock’s with half-lidded eyes. He held his shoulders and then suddenly pulled him against his chest, holding him there, embracing him, keeping him safe. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and buried his head in John’s chest, breathing in, their whispers only heard because they were so close.

“ _God, Sherlock, if anything happened to you— If that guy had—“_

_“It’s okay, I’m here—“_

_“I swear I would have—“_

_“I know.”_

After a long moment of holding Sherlock like that, feeling their arousal thrum through them, John slowly pulled back. He gently traced the outline of Sherlock’s collar bones with his fingertips, eliciting delicious shivers from the man beneath him. Then, his fingers returned to his own shirt, but Sherlock stilled him with his own hands. A small smile curled on his lips and he quirked an eyebrow. “I’ve been meaning to do that…” he murmured, and John smiled back as Sherlock began slowly undressing him.

“All you had to do was ask,” John whispered back. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “…apparently.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And you say my experiments never amount to anything.” He gently pushed the shirt from John’s shoulders, and John quickly pulled the vest over his head. Sherlock fixed his scanning gaze on his naked skin, and John looked away. He felt his scar tingle and didn’t quite know how to hold himself. “It’s not… I’m not…”

“Shut up,” Sherlock whispered and pulled him closer again. His mouth wandered first to his neck, kissing, licking, gently biting. John, still tense, writhed in his lap, which only made the almost painful erection in his trousers ache more. Sherlock held him close with an iron grip, his tongue and lips exploring the shoulder, the scar, the collar bone… everything he could reach. Small moans escaped John’s lips and he slowly let himself relax under the onslaught of so much tenderness. Finally, Sherlock travelled from the jawline back to John’s lips and John’s vision went completely white.

The following minutes were a blur. Somehow, he got Sherlock’s shirt completely off of his shoulders and Sherlock had begun unzipping John’s trousers. John finally snapped back to reality when he felt Sherlock’s eager hand palming him. He was so shocked and surprised at the touch that he nearly came then and there.

“Sher…” he gasped incoherently. “ _Oh God._ Bed—room. We should—“

“Yes,” Sherlock’s deep voice vibrated from his lips against John’s sternum. Sherlock’s hands were firmly gripping his arse, gently rocking John in his lap, seemingly unaware he was doing it. He raised his head to look at John. When he caught Sherlock’s eyes, his breath caught and he blinked, utterly awed.

“Oh _Jesus_ … Sherlock, _seeing you like this_ , I never thought—“

Something vulnerable crossed Sherlock’s face before his gaze turned predatory again. He suddenly let go of John and gently pushed him off. John scrambled to his feet and watched as Sherlock slowly took his shoes off, his eyes never leaving John’s. Then he stepped forward, his pale torso shining in the street light that fell in through the window. He took John’s hand and pulled him along.

Together, they made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock closed the door behind them. Their movements had stilled. The silence around them was almost palpable. Gone was the frantic buzz of their arousal out in the living room. The weight of what was about to happen rested on John’s very skin; from the intense look Sherlock was giving him, he felt no different. Their desire had slowed, deepened, until it was no longer a agitated strumming but rather a long, limitless note; a baritone once plucked that just kept on vibrating.

John stepped forward, his undone trousers already slipping low on his hips. He placed his palms on Sherlock’s chest and walked him towards the bed. He let his eyes roam all over the slim form of this man he needed, craved. “You’re really so beautiful,” he murmured, and Sherlock lowered his chin with a smile, his eyes never leaving John’s. There was a fire in them that burned through John, like all that energy and intellect was suddenly focussed into one beam of attention.

Sherlock’s hand rested firmly on his sides. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he sat down and began pulling John’s trousers down until he could step out of them. When John moved closer, he hummed contentedly and wrapped his hands around him again. He pressed his face into John’s stomach, sighing. As his collarbone brushed John’s erection, he shuddered and carded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair to keep him close. He looked down just as Sherlock looked up. When their eyes met, it was as if someone had suddenly thrown kerosene on smouldering embers.

Desire leapt up in John’s chest and Sherlock’s eyes darkened in response, a small gasp forming on his perfect lips. He scrabbled further onto the bed and John quickly followed. He kneeled in front of Sherlock and hurriedly pulled off the superfluous trousers and socks until the man lay only in his tight boxer briefs in front of him, erection firmly visible.

 _God_ , he was absolutely _gone_. John dropped to all fours and kneeled over Sherlock, who seemed to have stopped breathing at this point, staring at him with what could only be described as utter fascination. The sight alone of Sherlock spread out like this just for him was close to making him lose all coherence. He closed his eyes and lowered his lips to the chest, the stomach, kissing every single rise and fall of muscle and bone he encountered, drawing the most indecent sounds from Sherlock he had ever heard the man make.

When his lips hit the fabric of Sherlock’s pants, John let his hands wander up the long, long legs to greet them. His hands darted over the cloth in a feather light touch. Sherlock’s muscles tightened and he could feel him straining against the constricting garment. “May I…?“ John let his fingertips graze the top.

“God yes,” Sherlock breathed and John had never heard a more rapturous sound. “Anything. Everything.”

* * *

 Later, much later, both of them were still wrapped around each other in a blissful dark nothingness, not thinking, not talking, just feeling each other. Mingled sweat was cooling off on skin, hands and arms and lips lazily caressing the other, latching on anything they could find. Sherlock was lying half on top of John, his lanky form enveloped in John’s arms. John was running his hands back and forth through his hair and down his back and up again; Sherlock was basically humming in contentment beneath his palms.

After a long while, Sherlock wriggled a little to free his mouth and smacked his lips before he tried to speak. ( _Adorable_ , John thought.) He let his fingers dance absently on John’s arm. “Why were you worried about me?”

John’s pleasure-dazed brain tried to keep up. “Hmm?”

“You said that… you were worried about me. In regards to telling people about… us.”

The slight hesitation gave John some hints. “Yes. I wasn’t sure… how you felt. I didn’t want us to um… proclaim certain new developments before you were sure that it was entirely what you wanted.”

“You are truly the master of circumlocution, John.”

John flushed a little. “Well.” He chuckled. “So is it? I mean… was that what you wanted? What you want, from now on? I didn’t want you to be under pressure from other people.”

Sherlock raised his head and wriggled a hand under his chin so he could lock eyes with John. “First of all, other people can go hang. Most of them anyway. And secondly, I know I am not particularly experienced in this—“

John raised an eyebrow at the man on his chest.

“—okay, not at all experienced in this – _something I intent to remedy as quickly as possible_ —“ he gritted out with a determination that made John’s breath catch.

“—but I hope I managed to convey how entirely I wanted what happened.”

John smiled. “I think you did, yes.”

“Good.” Amusement danced behind Sherlock’s eyes. “And yes, more of that would be excellent, otherwise how am I meant to get experience?”

“True,” John grinned now. “I am liking where this is going.”

“Beyond that, to your original question: I think people can make their own deductions, do you think?”

“Absolutely.”

Sherlock wriggled up a little and gazed down into John’s eyes. A small hesitancy crept into his look, before he smiled warmly and gently kissed John’s lips.

John sighed happily and nuzzled Sherlock’s curls when he laid his head back down on his chest.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” The voice had become sleepy again.

“I love you.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock drawled, a smile forming against John’s chest. His hands moved up and wriggled underneath John’s torso, to wrap himself securely around John.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Did you know that experiments have shown that regular sex can really boost a person’s immune system?”

Sherlock’s answer was a muffled laugh against his chest and a soft kiss. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, thank you all so so much for reading and commenting, that was really very motivating!! Love to you all xxx


End file.
